Immortal
by escritoria
Summary: France never stopped grieving after Jeanne d'Arc was killed. So when England finds a spell to retrieve her from beyond the grave, of course France is beyond thrilled. But when their miracle comes with an unexpected constraint, will their star-crossed love be able to survive? FrancexJeanne d'Arc
1. Grieving

**AN: Hello all! I am Escritoria, the fangirl responsible for this humble fic. I decided to write this particular fic because this pairing is possibly the best thing ever and I love it :D I love the idea that France is really a sweet and kind person who had a scarring experience, so that's what I tried to explore in this fic. He may seem pretty OOC, but that's because this fic pretty much embodies my headcanon that, had Jeanne lived, France would have turned out a lot differently.**

**Also, advance warning-you might get whiplash from the POV switches. This chapter is the most spastic, so it gets more normal from here on out, but when things get dramatic expect to be seeing through many eyes. Oh, and if you get lost, the way characters address each other should show you whose perspective it is. England uses France and Joan, France uses France and Jeanne, and Jeanne uses Jeanne and Francis. England is always England, though xD**

**Please leave me a review if you liked it, or even if you didn't! All feedback is much appreciated :)**

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The waters of the Seine River flowed past, gurgling cheerfully and dancing with lights under the summer sun. France could remember the days when this river had been much cleaner, but it had never ceased to produce that happy noise and flash with brilliant color every time he came to visit. The birds sang cheerfully, and the city nearby bustled with teeming, vibrant life.

He hated it so much that he wanted to rend it into shreds. If he could have cut this cursed river out of his hide, he would have.

But it didn't work that way. What happened to his country affected _him_, not the other way around. Cutting into his skin would not erase this cursed river.

And so the river flowed on, as it had since before he could remember, never ceasing. Never offering an apology or even pausing to comfort the man who represented its land and people.

France stared at the river, burning its image into his memory. Jeanne had no tomb. The surging waters were her headstone, the waves the dirt gently enfolding her form. He visited her here every year, on the anniversary of her death.

Everyone in the city knew the legend of the man who came, without fail, to sit by the river's edge on the thirtieth of May, staring into the tossing waters for hours. People speculated that he was a ghost, this man who never aged and continued to appear, year after year after year. No one had any idea that he'd come for the past six hundred May thirtieths, only failing when an international crisis called him elsewhere.

Only one other person on the planet knew of France's annual visit to the watery grave of Jeanne d'Arc. His name was the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and he had killed her.

o~O~o

England hadn't known then how much it would hurt France. Of course, he had known that Joan was important to him, and that had made her valuable. She was a chink in his armor. More than that, she was a symbol of hope to his people, and that just could not be allowed.

England had never seen France cry before that day. In fact, he'd never even known of anything that could mean enough to France to make him cry. As a nation, you learned that things and people were replaceable. When the flow of time left you untouched, it made the humans and objects around you seem so trivial. Here one day, gone tomorrow, a vapor in the sunlight, a bloom consumed by the fatal breath of winter.

But as they scattered her ashes into the Seine, and France arrived just too late, England saw tears. France had ridden his horse to death trying to get there in time to save her, and then he'd nearly run himself to death once his horse collapsed under him. Still too late.

"No," he'd moaned, staring into the water, his face a mask of shock. England had never seen a man look as feeble as France did as his knees gave out and thudded to the hard-packed earth. "She can't… I… No! No!" He crawled towards the river, tears beginning to gather on his eyelashes. "You can't have! No! _Jeanne_!"

A wordless roar of pain blasted from a chasm of loss so deep within France that England had to step back, away from the terrible noise. He was aghast. The two of them had been fighting for one hundred years now, but as France screamed his misery to unforgiving steel-gray skies, all England could remember was all the times they had been like brothers. They never failed to come to each other's aid when they needed it. Their royal houses were so intermixed they were almost like one. They were more than allies—they were friends.

And he'd killed Joan of Arc.

England never forgot that day. It was impossible. The destitution, the loss, the sheer force of the sorrow he'd seen from France that day was impossible to erase. He could never take back what he'd done, and he could never atone for causing a living person that much pain. It was not the murder he regretted—it was what he had stolen from the living that was the true atrocity. It was an irredeemable sin, what he'd done in killing Joan of Arc. Perhaps in the eyes of God it was not beyond forgiveness, but even if God was willing, England refused to forgive himself for the pain in France's eyes that never truly went away after that day.

o~O~o

France had never hurt so much. People had fleeting lives, he knew, a handful of years. But he had never thought that Jeanne's would be so few.

He had forgiven England—how could he not? He loved England too, as a brother. He could not allow Jeanne's death to steal from him a lover and a brother at once. So he forgave.

o~O~o

England didn't want to be forgiven. He wanted France to blame him, so that he could have an excuse to get angry and not feel the weight of the guilt he had borne all these years, a weight he could not give up. France had forgiven him—so why didn't he put down the burden that felt like it could rival Atlas'?

Because he deserved it. He deserved the weight of his sin pressing him into the earth, reminding him that everyone failed. Everyone was a monster in their own way.

For example, England was a murderer. He'd ripped France's love from this world, erased all the years they could have spent in happiness.

o~O~o

Of course France wished for Jeanne back, but what was past was past. She would have died some other time, some other way. He knew Jeanne would have appreciated the death of a martyr more than lying in bed, wasting away.

But he had so little time, so little time. Maybe if she'd died in bed, he could have held her hand and kissed her brow as her weary heart labored towards its rest. He would have stayed, no matter how old she grew. Maybe if she'd died like that, with his hand in hers, he could have been satisfied. The years she'd lost could have been filled with kisses, touches, words that would never be. They could have been married, and protocol be burned. A nation had never married, but he would have. For her. Marriage was a holy sacrament of God, and she was nothing if not a Godly woman.

If only she could have lived. She had so much left. He had so much left. So many words unuttered. So many things they had never gotten to do together. No nights breathing in synch, pressing darkness to dawn with each exhale. No summers of wildflowers and oceans, of breezes full of campfires and pine trees and fireflies. No…children? Was that possible? Her children, his children. France had never had much fondness for children, but _their_ children… That might be what he missed most, of all the things he'd never gotten the chance to miss.

o~O~o

_There's a difference_, England thought, _between knowing there is death in the world, and having been the one who delivers it_.

o~O~o

Nations killed. It was the way of things. Wars happened. People died.

o~O~o

But… A woman. It was so hard. Nowadays weapons were different. A woman could shoot a gun as well as a man—but the power necessary to put pain into a sword or into blunt fists was reserved for men. Joan had not been strong enough.

o~O~o

France had always admired Jeanne's strength. What if there was only one? If every person had only one soul mate, did that count for nations as well? Only a girl, she had been, but she would have been a woman he could love forever. Beyond her flesh, beyond her body, he loved her soul. It had been stolen from him.

_Is it good to be free, Jeanne? Is the flesh truly so ugly compared to the soul?_

He was trapped in the flesh, and she was a spirit. It was the truest definition of star-crossed love. A love that transcended centuries and even the grave.

o~O~o

Spellbooks, a whole library of them. England had been building up his collection since that day.

o~O~o

France wondered if Jeanne still loved him from Heaven, as he still loved her from Earth. "This is where I belong, Jeanne," he whispered. "I make mistakes. I'm not a saint like you."

_You were too perfect for this world. Too perfect to be anything but dead._

o~O~o

Spells, thousands upon thousands. Magic was more widely practiced than people believed.

o~O~o

"Jeanne!" France still woke screaming from nightmares. Had she suffered, burning? Or had God delivered her from the pain of the flames?

o~O~o

Just one spell among those thousands. Like a needle in a haystack, but he needed that needle to lift the weight of the sky off his soul.

o~O~o

Sometimes France doubted God's mercy. But he could understand why He would want Jeanne at his side. France could fault no one, not himself or Jeanne or England or even God, for her death. Death just happened. That was the way it was.

o~O~o

Everything was fluid. Even time, even the grave. If you could get permission.

o~O~o

"What do you want, England?" France asked, not looking up from the watery grave where he mourned his love. The river flowed with his tears.

England paused, as if surprised France had heard him. He should have known. Even when France was in a pensive mood, even though he pretended otherwise, he was no fool. Those who wrote The French Republic off as a fool often found that they had been sadly mistaken.

A moment of silence. Then, "I found a spell to bring her back, France."

France looked up, and his heart began to beat again.

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**AN: In my head that last scene seemed like a movie or something, where you could actually hear the heartbeat :D I hope everyone else got that breathless sort of anticipation there. Thanks for reading and reviewing!**


	2. Reborn

**AN: Welcome to Chapter 2! This is the one where Jeanne comes back to life, so I hope you all enjoy! Oh, and good news! It only switches POV 3 times xD**

**Thanks to all the people who reviewed! Please continue to review, I really do appreciate consistent readers and reviewers ^^ Love you guys! *France blows kisses to all the lovely people who plan on reviewing***

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"Are you sure?" France had asked that question so many times over the past few days. His heart stood on tiptoe on the edge of a precipice. Could it really be true? Could he get his Jeanne back? He couldn't dare to hope. And yet the hope he hardly dared to reach for had become the only thing for which he continued to breathe.

"Almost one hundred percent, France. But this isn't an exact science," England responded patiently. Usually he would have become short-tempered at having to answer the same question so many times, but for some reason he hadn't. France couldn't fathom it, but he was glad. The question poured out even if he tried to stop it, even if he managed to realize it was on his tongue before it escaped. Usually it was already dying on his lips before he realized the phrase had come to mind.

o~O~o

England just couldn't become angry with France for repeating the question so often. There was so much hope in his eyes, such vulnerable hope—a child's hopeful eyes, a small hand reaching out for a bigger, stronger hand to hold theirs and assure them that everything was alright, when they were afraid to believe it could be true.

A true lover had the heart of a child, he thought. France was many things, but rarely childish. Immature, maybe, but not childish. Joan of Arc put the weakness of youth in his eyes, the tender vulnerability of the first flower of spring.

England hummed the spell to himself. Not a spell, really—a prayer. Magic could manipulate the corporeal, but the dead belonged to God. A summoning, a curse, a transmutation—they all operated within the laws set down by the Creator. Magic was a variable like any other. Gravity, wavelengths, temperature—magic belonged to their realm as well. But retrieving a soul from its rest was beyond the ability of a man. A man could fashion a body, but it would only be an empty shell. Only God could give life.

They had made all the preparations. The most complex pentagram that England had ever drawn was laid out at their feet. Symbols and angles and lines spilled over each other across the packed earthen floor, writing out the formula for retrieving the dead. The eye-wrenching pattern began to glow with eerie pale green phosphorescence as the spell took effect.

The prayer was set out, scripted, but England added his own words internally. _Give him back what I took, God. Please. _England hadn't been much of a praying man in recent years, but he had never really stopped believing. _He loves her so much. Please, let him have her back. Please._

The green glow of the pentagram began to coalesce into a form—a familiar slim, almost boyishly shaped form. Short-cropped hair waved, weightless, in the unearthly wind blown off the magical array.

France cried out and took a step forward, eyes fastened to the golem floating above the pentagram. "Stop," England ordered, barring his advance with an outstretched arm. "Give her time to form."

Reluctantly the blond Frenchman held his ground, but his eyes were trained on Joan with the desperation of a man dying of thirst staring at a pool of water.

Joan of Arc slowly settled to the floor, limp and unmoving, and the pentagram ceased to glow. And slowly, blinking painfully at the light like a child seeing the sun for the very first time, she opened her eyes.

o~O~o

"Jeanne!" France couldn't restrain himself anymore. He ran and fell to his knees at her side, pulled her head into his lap. The words he spoke came out instinctively in the archaic French that he had used to whisper words of love to her six hundred years ago. "Jeanne, can you hear me?"

She blinked, slowly. Her beautiful eyes! France was crying. He'd never thought to look into those eyes again. Even if this was a dream, he couldn't recall the last time he'd seen her sapphire eyes with such clarity in his memories.

Her mouth worked soundlessly, as if she was trying to remember how to use it. "Francis…"

"It's me, my love. I'm here." France didn't even bother to dry his tears. Not even England's presence to witness the scene bothered him. He was too elated, flying on the wings of her life once more united with his in this world. "We're together again."

Slowly, Jeanne raised her hand to his face. Her fingers brushed softly across the stubble on his cheeks, his eyelids, his lips. Those parted under her fingers slightly with pleasure; he'd forgotten the rapture of her touch. "It is really you…" she said in her archaic French. The words were carefully formed, a child discovering its voice.

"It's me," he said with a joyous smile, catching her hand and holding it to his lips. He kissed her fingertips over and over again, unable to believe their weight and warmth and blessed solid reality. How many times had he kissed her in his dreams, only to have her evaporate in his arms? If he awoke in a few moments, he wasn't sure if he would be able to stand it. "It's me."

"You're not… Our home… It isn't dead, is it?" she asked, faint worry creasing her brow as she fought her way through the fog that clouded her eyes and mind.

"No, no," he assured her gently. "_I'm_ not dead. You're alive again. God gave you back to me, Jeanne."

"He did?" Jeanne's eyes widened. Her gaze went past him and she sighed, "Thank you, Lord. Thank you." Her fingers curled around his with the weakness of a baby's. "Francis, I…" Suddenly she glanced down at herself and blushed explosively crimson.

France followed her gaze, alarmed, and found himself blushing too. She was as bare as the day she was born. How could he have not noticed? His hands sprang away from her instinctively. "Ah, I…" He averted his eyes and gently set Jeanne down on the floor. As he turned away, he noticed England behind him, blushing even harder and pointedly looking anywhere but at Jeanne.

"Er, I'll go find her something to, uh, wear," England stuttered, flushing even more vividly as he fled the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, France could see Jeanne blushing and trying to cover herself. "Um, I'll go with him!" he cried, and scrambled out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

France leaned against the door, panting slightly with shock. England emerged from rooting through the closet next to his spellcasting room with another, smaller version of the dark robe he wore for his magic, presumably from when he was younger. The smaller man smirked slightly, although the last traces of blush were still fading from his cheeks. "My, my, France. Since when have you been flustered by the sight of a naked woman?"

"I—" France began, ready to defend himself, but then he stopped. When _was_ the last time seeing a naked woman had shocked him so much, or even made him skip a beat? If it had been anyone else, he wouldn't have run off like that if someone paid him to. And he _loved_ Jeanne. What was going on? "Just give me that," he snapped, snatching the robe from England's hands. He wasn't looking forward to venturing back into the room, but as much as he was discomfited by the idea of seeing Jeanne without a scrap on, he wanted England to see her like that even less. Just the thought made him see red for a moment.

He opened the door hesitantly, eyes fastened to the floor. "Here's something for you to wear," he called in, tossing the robe in Jeanne's general direction.

"Thank you," she said, the sound muffled by the heavy robe as she pulled it on. When he heard the click of the clasp locking, he felt safe to look up.

Jeanne looked the same as he remembered, with jaw-length blonde hair and deep stormy blue eyes that made his stomach swoop even after all these centuries. Even though the robe she wore was smaller than England's regular one, it was still slightly baggy on her, falling over her hands and dragging slightly on the floor.

France wanted to live in this moment forever—the moment where she was alive and here and beautiful—the moment he was more in love with her than he'd ever been.

The pure joy of the moment was so intense it bordered on pain. How long could she last? Her mortal form would die within less than a century; and if this was a dream, as he feared, she could be gone within moments.

He was almost afraid to touch her and find that she really was just a vision of his memories, even after he'd held her and kissed her hands. This was simply too wonderful to be reality.

"Francis?" Jeanne walked into his arms. She was blessedly solid, and she didn't turn to vapor at his touch like he'd feared. Memory had never done her justice. Although she was slender, she fit into his arms like she'd been made to be there, a puzzle piece sliding into place. The soft give of her body against his, and the firmness of a soldier's muscles underneath, was just as he remembered. "Are you alright?"

"I just…" He buried his face in her hair and squeezed his eyes shut as he breathed her in. Again, it was just as his memories had recorded. Her scent was that of a summer meadow, of wildflowers gilded by the rays of the afternoon sun. A tear trickled down his face and into her golden hair. "Jeanne, I missed you so much." His arms tightened around her until he could almost hear her ribs creak, but he didn't relinquish his grip; thankfully, she didn't ask him to, either.

"Francis, I love you," she said, hugging him back. Not so fiercely, but her voice trembled with just as much emotion. "I love you so much."

o~O~o

England walked along the hall idly. France and Joan had left several hours ago, and by now it was late evening, the sky beginning to grow dark with the onrushing night.

England made his way to the kitchen, passing full suits of armor and priceless art pieces on his way. As a nation, he had amassed quite the collection over the centuries—he paid them little heed. Today he had too much going through his mind to stop and admire the décor.

_Well done, me_, he told himself as he grabbed an ale from his refrigerator and snapped off the top. Dominating his wide spectrum of emotions was tired pride. He'd finally accomplished what he'd spent so many centuries trying to do. He'd finally removed the weight of guilt from his conscience, erased the stain that had blackened his soul for so long.

As for the rest… Well, he was embarrassed, of course. He'd seen his fair share of women sans clothing, but never someone who so wholly belonged to someone else. The way France looked at Joan… That was just something priceless. She was as much a part of France as his arm or his lungs. Even being in the same room with the pair of them was enough to reveal the depths of their devotion and adoration of one another. Their love was cleansed by separation, refined by death, and forged in the fires of pain. God himself had even given his divine blessing to their union.

And honestly, any woman who could return France to the time when he'd shied at the sight of a naked woman was a remarkable one indeed.

Beyond that though, England felt oddly… Empty. His goal of six hundred years had been reached—now, what did he have?

Taking a long swig of beer to drown that thought, England reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his black leather-bound notebook, in which he'd copied down the ancient text he'd used to devise the spell. It named several stipulations on the spell as well. No rite was perfect, and nothing could ever come for free—all magic was bought at a price. For example, this particular spell was one that could never be repeated on the same person. Once that person had been reincarnated, they could never be brought back after they had died once more. France's years with Joan would be few, but much more than the handful of months he'd gotten back when she'd been truly alive. That was enough, England thought, to give France a halfway decent life with her, and to ease England's conscience at last.

A footnote caught England's eye as he scanned the page idly, a little notation he'd scrawled hastily into the margin.

His eyes widened, and emerald green pools filled with horror as he felt the black stain creeping over his soul once more.

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**AN: Dun dun dun...**

**Stay tuned to find out the unexpected constraint! Please review and give me a guess as to what you think it'll be :D**


	3. Devastated

**AN: Guys, I really love this chapter! This is where you get to see how France and Jeanne really feel about each other and the situation they're in. Be sure to keep what you learn here in mind during the rest of the story...**

**Please review! Thanks very much for reading and I hope you enjoy :D**

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France stared at the ceiling, feeling like his whole body was crawling with fire ants. _I can't take this!_

He threw off the covers and put his feet to the cold floor. His seafoam green pajamas whispered slightly as he made his way down the hall to Jeanne's room.

As silently as he could, he cracked the door open and peered inside. The room he'd given her was simple, as he knew she would prefer, but elegant. None of his rooms were plain. Simple, sometimes, but never plain. A king-sized canopy bed carved in heavy, aged mahogany dominated the room, its comforter plain sky-blue. The room was painted just the faintest baby blue, and its decorations were all in the same dark wood as the bed. Antique porcelain bowls, vases, and pitchers sat on the nightstand and chest-of-drawers—but they were just decorations, not for use. He hadn't had the chance to tell the maid to remove them yet.

But his eyes were all for Jeanne. She was still there, sleeping peacefully, tucked away like a doll among the sky-blue blankets. Just as she had been the last hour, and the hour before that, and the hour before that.

France hadn't slept at all tonight—he was too preoccupied with worry that he would wake to find her vanished. Every hour or so he found himself tiptoeing back to her room, just to take a quick glance and make sure she wasn't going anywhere. No matter how hard he tried to keep himself firmly in his own bed, he was tormented by waking nightmares of finding her gone until he was forced to get up and just make sure she was there.

The door chose that moment to squeak very loudly on its aged hinges. Wincing, France tried to steal out of the room before she could notice him.

Unfortunately Jeanne was a light sleeper—a soldier's instincts. "Francis?" she said blearily, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. She was wearing a floor-length white nightgown with a pink bow at the neck and gathers of lace at the wrists—she had refused all other sleeping attire. She had come from a much more modest time, and had not lost her tastes in Heaven. "What are you doing here?"

France hesitated. "Can I sleep in here?" he blurted against his better judgment.

Her expression instantly grew distrustful. "I don't think that's proper…"

"Please. I just need to know you're there," he begged. "There's no way I will be able to sleep tonight if I can't feel you here with me."

She softened slightly, though her apprehension was still clear. "I suppose… But if you try anything, be warned that I haven't grown any less adept with a sword for being so old," she added warningly.

He chuckled. "I would expect no less, my love."

Carefully, so as not to unnerve Jeanne, he climbed under the coverlet beside her and carefully reached out to brush a few stray gold hairs out of her face as she snuggled back down.

She blushed prettily pink and took his hand, maintaining a strict distance between their two bodies. "There. Better?"

He shoved down disappointment. Not exactly what he had in mind, but he couldn't really expect her to allow him to hold her while they lay in bed together. "Yes, much. Thank you."

Jeanne dropped off to sleep not long after. Her sleeping face was so innocent and beautiful. He could have stared at it forever, but sleep was a stern master, and soon he was dropping off into dreams as well.

As reality faded, a cold realization hit him. Jeanne _knew_. She had to know what he'd been doing for the past six centuries as far as women were concerned—why else would she have been so hesitant to allow him to join her in her bed, and touch her when he got there?

Hot shame flooded his cheeks. What must she think of him? Jeanne d'Arc, a saint, and he, a man who'd lived in sin for as long as he could remember. Was she really happy to be here with him? Could she really love him, knowing what he was and what he'd done? Could she even be happy here, on fallen Earth, after having lived for so long among the marvels of eternity?

Had he made a mistake in forcing her to return?

o~O~o

Jeanne d'Arc dreamed of the past.

First, she dreamed of dying. That shocked her and terrified her, but unfortunately not enough to wake her and allow her to escape from the burning. She had never relived her death—in Heaven, there was no such thing as death, so it was of little import. Of course, new citizens of the Kingdom came in after their deaths, but no one thought of it as death; to them, it was more of a graduation into eternity. Furthermore, even if she had chosen to explore the memories of her execution, they never would have come with such painful clarity. Heaven knew no pain or suffering, so her memory of death would have been washed-out, an anesthetized version of the reality.

Back on Earth, memory burned. So much burning—agony, flesh crumbling, eyes drying, hair aflame, each lick of fire a jagged rip of exquisite pain, each one distinct—the Devil's whip laid open her flesh again and again—screaming, screaming, screaming until the flames consumed her throat and she was forced to scream in every tortured cell of her body, soundless screams that did nothing to relieve her pain.

And then light.

Heaven was a lovely place. There everything was golden, and the halls and streets rang constantly with the prayers and praise of both the victorious dead and the living souls on Earth.

When she first woke up to this life, she had been shocked by the silence. It had taken her a good while to realize she was awake—the only times Heaven's hum ceased was in dreams, and sometimes not even then. Seeing Francis' face had done nothing to convince her that she was seeing reality. She had often seen him from Heaven—only touch could make her realize that she was alive once more. The dead could not touch the living, a fact that had disappointed her for centuries. Disappointment was the Heavenly equivalent of bone-deep sorrow.

For the better part of a millennium she had watched Francis from Heaven. Truly, time did not exist in Heaven, so she had watched him _forever_. After she had been declared a saint, she had been considered a patron of France—although that wasn't really accurate, because no one human stood higher than others in the eyes of God, she thought it was a very fitting sentiment. By the estimation of the Catholic Church, it was her job to look after France, and that's exactly what she did, although more specifically than the Catholic Church assumed she did. And although she could not feel it herself because of Heaven's buffer against painful emotions, she knew his sorrow at her death. She understood better than anyone the agony he was in, the loneliness he felt that was now set deep into the core of who he was—maybe better than he understood it himself. Heaven offered the perfect vision that was reserved for hindsight on Earth.

With that perfect vision, she saw what Francis did after she died, and she understood. She saw him in the arms of woman after woman, and while that hurt her as much as was possible in paradise, she knew why, even though he did not. He was lonely, and he was trying to fill a void left by her death that simply could not be filled. As relationship after relationship refused to satisfy him, he turned to drastic measures—he was driven into bed to find something that would make him _feel_ anything. Women, men—it ceased to matter to him. Anyone that would allow him to feel something again, something that bordered on the love he'd had for Jeanne before fate ripped them apart—he took them, and it always made him feel just as empty as before.

She loved him so much. That much she could feel in Heaven, because it was an emotion pure and sweet enough to survive in a land of perfection. And yet she was disappointed in him, and hurt by his unfaithfulness. Part of her knew that this was seriously unfair—she had been dead for six hundred years; how could she expect him to remain as he was, stagnant, as the world changed around him? The disappointment was justified, at least—even if he had moved on, adultery was forbidden by God, and he never should have done it—but her jealousy was unwarranted. Unfortunately, irrational emotions were a trademark of the living.

It had begun to rain in the night, and Jeanne had been awoken by a peal of thunder. Francis had slumbered on, even as she shocked bolt upright in bed. Their hands were still linked, but her movement didn't disturb him.

Reluctantly, Jeanne settled back into bed. Lightning storms had been much more of a danger back in her time—nowadays, lightning damage was less common. If Francis was still sleeping, they should be safe.

As she lay back down, Jeanne stared into Francis' face. Just as handsome as ever. He'd been clean-shaven when she died, as was regulation for young soldiers, but she liked the slight stubble he wore now. He looked slightly rugged that way. She loved his bright blue eyes and his sun-dark skin. Even from Heaven, where she could see all corners of the world, she'd never seen a man more beautiful than her Francis.

Blushing, she reached out to brush fingers across his lips. How she'd missed kissing him.

His eyelids fluttered slightly, but he didn't wake. She withdrew her fingers quickly anyway for fear of drawing him from his slumber.

Restlessly, Francis shifted towards her in his sleep, his hands roaming across the sheets as if searching. She had seen that from Heaven before—when he was dreaming about her, he often reached out for her only to find her gone.

This time his eyes flickered open in surprise when his hand met her waist. Jeanne snapped her eyes shut, just the littlest bit afraid of what he'd do if he realized that she was still awake. That was why she had pretended to fall asleep so quickly too. Being in bed with him just made her nervous, after all she'd seen him do. In reality, that anxiety had kept her awake until she was sure Francis was asleep.

She heard him sigh with relief and contentment. "Still here…" His arm tightened around her waist. A gossamer kiss brushed across her temple, making an involuntary shiver crawl up her spine. He smiled against her skin.

Although she waited, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart at his proximity, he didn't move away. His breathing became slow and even, and she knew that he had fallen asleep.

Unwillingly she forced her taut muscles to loosen. She couldn't sleep if she was as tense as a drawn bowstring, and she needed her rest. In many ways she felt like a newborn—weak and unable to provide for herself, without a single possession to her name—despite the fact that she'd lived an eternity.

Slowly her eyes drifted shut and she began to fall asleep. It was actually…surprisingly comfortable, sleeping in his arms like this. She'd never slept in a man's arms before. It was nice…

She kissed him briefly, unable to resist. "My love," she whispered. "I'm so glad to be back with you."

Yet, as she sank back into dreams, she felt a pang of longing. For Heaven.

o~O~o

England wanted to be anywhere else but at the door of France's country estate just outside of Versailles, where he knew France had taken Joan. Modern cities and crowds of modern people would probably shock her—otherwise they would probably be at France's flat in Paris or his beach house. Of his three homes, his Versailles estate was his least favorite simply because it was large and hard to manage. He spent most of his time in Paris, although he favored the beach in the summer months.

_Stop stalling_, England ordered himself, and took a deep breath to steel his nerves. He raised his hand and knocked.

A butler opened the door. "Welcome, Mr. Kirkland," the butler said, opening the door wide. He recognized England, of course, although he didn't know his real identity. All of the servants noticed that none of Master Bonnefoy's friends aged, but France's staff was well paid to not ask any questions. England's own maids and manservants had a handsome bonus added to their salary to keep them silent.

"Thank you," England said, inclining his head to the butler. He spoke in impeccable French—he was also well-versed in Russian, German, Japanese, Italian, Spanish, and Mandarin, and spoke scattered phrases in almost every other language you could name. He could get by in almost any country, excepting a few regions in Africa and Latin America that spoke obscure indigenous languages. "I presume the master is in, right?"

"He is upstairs with his lady friend, as far as I am aware," the butler replied. "Shall I show you to him?"

"Please."

England followed the monochrome-clad butler up a spiral staircase and down a hallway as intricately decorated as the palace of Versailles, every surface covered with gilt and lacquer and every niche filled with a priceless vase or other artifact. The graying old man stopped before a carved door of dark wood and knocked with one gloved knuckle. "Master? Mr. Kirkland is here to see you."

"Let him in," France called through the heavy door.

The butler held the door open for England, bowing slightly with his hand to his heart. "Please ring for me if there is anything you require."

"Thank you." England entered the room, calling, "France, I don't suppose there is any way I could convince you to part with your butler? He's excellently trained, much better than mine."

"Of course not!" England rounded the corner, following France's voice, and was embarrassed but unsurprised to find himself in a bedroom. France was sitting up the sky-blue bed, with Joan just stirring to wakefulness at his side. England should have guessed that the Frenchman would make his move immediately. But for a wonder, they were both fully clothed!

Joan squeaked slightly when she saw England and gathered the blankets up to her chin, although she was perfectly decent in a white nightgown that concealed her down to her lace-covered wrists. She shrank into France's side, then seemed surprised to find herself doing so and flinched away.

A shadow of pain crossed France's face, but it was gone so quickly that England was sure he had to have imagined it. France was many things, but subtle was not among them. He never hid his emotions like that. With a cheerful smirk, he asked, "I assume you came to examine your subject?"

Joan smiled at him tentatively. "I never properly thanked you, sir. You have my gratitude."

England inclined his head in response. "No, that isn't why I'm here. Actually, I have… Unfortunately I have some bad news."

There was an icy silence. "Bad news," France said flatly, cracking the quiet like an ice pick. Joan's hand slid under his in comfort.

Hot shame flooded England. "I got on the plane the moment I found out," he said quickly, as if that would make the news easier to bear. "But, France… The spell, I found out that…"

"Spit it out, England," France said calmly. His hand on Joan's tightened, however. "What is it?"

England wished France would get angry, or show _some_ emotion. This icy calm was more terrifying than shouts or even blows.

"France… The spell only reincarnated Joan for a set amount of time. She has her death date set," England said with difficulty.

Pain filled France's eyes, but his face remained as expressionless as ever. Joan's eyes widened—but not in fear. She looked more…intrigued…than anything.

"When?" France asked. His voice carried only a slight trace of strain.

England felt like his heart was ripping itself to shreds. How could he say this to France, his best friend, who loved Joan so much that the pain of losing her again might be unbearable?

But he had to do it. This was his fault, and he just had to say it. "It's… Oh, God, France. The spell only gives you five days. Joan only has four more days to live."

o~O~o

France's heart shattered.

o~O~o

Jeanne wasn't sure how to feel.

o~O~o

_It's okay, get it together_, France ordered himself. _This could be for the best. She belongs in Heaven. She might not even want to be here. This way I can see her again and then she can go back._

o~O~o

It wasn't that Jeanne was eager to get away from Francis—she loved him so much that she felt that it would be almost unbearable to go back to watching him from afar. But she knew that in Heaven, she wouldn't feel that way. Nothing was sad in Heaven. There was no possible way she could be upset once she got there. But her heart went out to Francis—he would feel the loss just as keenly as the last time.

But… Earth was an unhappy place. She was unused to feeling unhappiness, and she didn't want to go back to it. She would rather be in Heaven with Francis at her side.

Unfortunately, she could not have both him and Heaven.

Unfortunately, she could not have a choice in the matter, either. In four days she would expire, no matter how much grief she felt about it. So she decided she would not mourn, but enjoy the days she had been given to be with him.

o~O~o

Jeanne didn't look upset about their impending separation. France was so empty inside that he had no tears.

_It's true._

_She doesn't want me._

_What have I lived for, if she doesn't want me? I loved her so long, and she doesn't feel the same way._

_Why am I doing this? What's the point?_

_I've never loved anyone else. Ever. How can't she feel that too?_

He'd never felt too miserable to cry before.

o~O~o

Jeanne took Francis' hand and pulled it onto her lap. "It's alright," she told him, gently lifting his hand to her lips. "It's going to be okay. All things work together for good, remember?" Why did he have to be so sad? It was selfish, but he was breaking her heart with the agony in his eyes. She wanted it to stop, his pain and hers.

o~O~o

_Don't be kind. _He didn't want her pity. He didn't want her kisses if she didn't mean them.

Her death, he could deal with. He had before. But he had dealt with it in the knowledge that she loved him, and that had carried him through the years he spent alone.

This time, how could he carry on? Not only was he witnessing the slow, wasting death he had so desperately, foolishly hoped for, but he now knew that she had not loved him enough. There was a good chance that she did love him, of course—but if she wanted to be in Heaven rather than on Earth with him, then it didn't matter. Either way, she left.

_So even if she does love me, it's not enough._ A crushing weight collapsed onto his heart.

He couldn't imagine that her execution had hurt as much as this.

o~O~o

Something tickled at the edge of England's consciousness. _I could try to adapt that spell… Could it work?_ "I have to go. I'm so sorry, France."

As he drove back to the airport, he made a reservation for a flight leaving in an hour. He had to be back home as quickly as possible. The only way he could erase that stain he could feel creeping deeper and deeper into his core was by saving Joan's life.

Could it be done? It had to be possible. He couldn't go back to that living hell again.

* * *

**AN: ;n: Poor France. And Jeanne. And...well, not England. He's kind of a jerk in this fic. But anyways, allow me to assure you right now that this fic will have a happy ending. No matter how depressing it seems, rest assured that the ending will be a good one :)**


	4. Longing

**AN: Hello all! Sorry for the long wait, but I'm back and will try to be more attentive to my fanfics from now on :)**

**I'm going to apologize in advance if any of my knowledge about France is wrong. I live in Texas, USA-I've never set foot in Europe, much less been to all these places I'm sending France and Jeanne. I could be dead wrong about a lot of things! Just bear with me and allow it to be inaccurate for the sake of the storyline.**

**Enjoy and please leave me a review!**

* * *

France escaped to his room and leaned against the counter in his restroom, trying to sort through his thoughts.

First he laid down the things he knew. He had half a week with Jeanne, and she didn't love him enough to care. Now, how to work that?

Well, they could do things she'd like. He could take her all over France. It would be how she would want to spend her time—she was martyred for her country, so obviously she would want to see what it had become. Public places, so they didn't have to be alone together.

Jeanne had kissed his hand, so if she didn't love him, she was willing to pretend. He wouldn't push her, but he would take what she offered. He was selfish enough for that. Besides, he wasn't sure if he would be able to stop himself, when she was right there by his side. How could he have her right next to him and not reach out to touch her, kiss her?

_I'm sorry I love you_, he told her internally. _I brought you back without considering how you'd feel. I was selfish._

o~O~o

Jeanne climbed into a dress Francis had sent for her. It was green, with a neckline up to her chin. He knew she would refuse to wear anything less.

Francis had seemed so sad, so tortured. How could she make him feel better? She didn't want him to be sad in the bare handful of days that remained to them.

Her sweet Francis. She knew from watching him how long he'd been empty. Now she had come here and filled his soul with life once more, and it had hurt him. She'd rewound time, and remade him. He had reverted to what he had been six centuries ago—that had to be why he had shied at the sight of her naked body rather than ogling it, as he would have just a day before. He was innocent again, and he loved her with the innocence of youth. The first blossom of young love was the most beautiful, but when it withered and fell, it was the ugliest of all.

Their flower only had four days left of life. It was a bloom that would only open its petals twice. Jeanne knew the spell to bring her back could not be repeated once she had died once more; once her few days ended and she was once more delivered into the arms of God, she would not see Francis face-to-face until he died. And yet she never wanted Francis to die—if he was dead, it meant that the country she had fought and died for was gone as well. If only she could live—

She cut that thought off. No. It was impossible. Besides, this world was a place of pain. She would not live without heartbreak if she chose to live with him.

A knock at the door wormed its way through her thoughtful reverie to reach her ears. "Jeanne? Can I come in?"

"Please do," she called, starting towards the door to meet Francis.

When he stepped inside, she was startled to see that his eyes were carefully closed off, the expressive blue hardened into a wall she could not see through. "Francis?" She reached for his face, framing it with her hands. "Love?"

He winced ever so slightly at the word—she wouldn't have noticed if she wasn't holding him. Her concern deepened. "Francis, what—"

"I thought I would take you on a tour of France, darling. Would you like that?" he asked, cutting her off unceremoniously.

"Yes, very much!" she said, trying not to let her confusion show. What was the matter with him?

"Good." He smiled and leaned down to kiss her brow. "I'll make the arrangements. Would you like to join me in the library?"

"Yes!" She took the arm he offered her and went with him to the library.

Only when she was settled in an overstuffed armchair with a large, leather-bound tome, listening to Francis make calls on his cell phone—although she had witnessed the birth of the technology from Heaven, it still astounded her—did she realize something.

Francis had not yet kissed her. Her hands, her forehead, her shoulder, yes, but not her lips.

He used to love to kiss her. Even back then, he'd loved it. And yet, he hadn't even kissed her when she'd awakened on the floor of England's spellcasting room.

A numb chill ran through her. Something was wrong. Between his odd behavior and his refusal to kiss her, she was a little frightened.

What could be holding him back? And more importantly, were these precious few days with her love going to go to waste because of his hesitation?

o~O~o

Why did Jeanne insist on tormenting him?

She called him love, and she touched him as if it were nothing. As if he wasn't living for those little touches right now. And yet as much as that got his hopes up, he couldn't help but remember the blank look of uncaring in her eyes when England had brought the news.

The butler drove them to the train station and dropped them off there. France had the whole trip planned—he'd called in advance to reserve hotel rooms in all the cities they'd be staying in, except for the Riviera, where they'd stay in his beach house, and Paris, where they'd stay in his flat.

Paris was the final stop on the trip. It was rather poetically appropriate, he thought, that they would end their time together there. His capital city was his heart—a perfect place for Jeanne to die. He could just imagine it. Once more in the bedroom of the home he used most often, falling asleep to the familiar skyline of the City of Lights and the lullaby of the city's humming nightlife. Jeanne would be alive when he fell asleep and dead when he awoke. At least this time a painless death was guaranteed.

Painless for her, at least.

The train arrived and France loaded their baggage onto the overhead compartments. Jeanne stared wide-eyed at everything she saw. As the train began to move, she was glued to the window, wonderstruck at the sight of the countryside flying past.

France had to chuckle at the sight of her pinned to the window. He reached out and wound his fingers through hers.

She glanced at him, grinning at him so beautifully that it knocked the breath from his lungs. "It's so lovely, Francis," she cried. A few passengers looked at them strangely, unsure what to think of her archaic French dialect and old-fashioned attire, but they both ignored them.

France leaned forward carefully to look over her at the scenery. The way she sat made it impossible for him to look out of the window without pressing against her back. He hoped she didn't mind too much, because he thought that it might be a little glimpse of the Heaven she so wanted to return to.

o~O~o

Jeanne sighed and leaned back slightly so that she rested against Francis. She knew she shouldn't be so forward, but the lean strength of his body lingering over hers was wonderful—a perfect complement to the scenery rushing by.

It was familiar, all of it. The verdant greens, the hilly terrain—she knew it all. Of course, it was broken now by signs of human habitation. Cities studded the wilderness like the gems of a crown; every so often she'd see children playing in train yards or cars darting across the tracks in an attempt to beat the train.

Francis' estate must have been further from Versailles than Jeanne had realized. Their train ride was long enough that she felt Francis sit back in his seat, prompting her to do the same.

He sat carefully still, his gaze fixed on the scenery. Jeanne hardly noticed—she was too enchanted by the sights. Still that nagging concern would not be silenced. Something was seriously wrong. Yesterday, France had hardly been able to keep his hands to himself. What had changed?

She wanted to reach out to him, but halfway through reaching for his hand, she stopped herself.

What if…could it be that he simply didn't love her anymore? He had changed these past years. What if he could no longer accept what she was, since she had died and been left frozen in the ways of a century long past, now that he was new and current and changed with his nation?

It was disconcerting, not being able to see through the eyes of Heaven into the hearts of men. What if she simply wasn't all that he remembered, the woman that he had loved and yearned for all this time?

She remembered how he'd come to her in the night and asked to sleep with his arms around her. She'd offered her hand. It was all that she could give him, but it was certainly less than he wanted. Maybe what she was, what he had been back then, what they had between them, simply had no place in this new age.

Maybe it would just be better for him if she just disappeared.

For the first time in six centuries, Jeanne felt firsthand the pain of the world. Her heart cried out in agony as it was crushed beneath the burden of a sorrow that was just too heavy for her all-too-living soul to bear.

When they arrived at Versailles, Jeanne gaped openmouthed in wonder. Of all the things that had changed, city life was the most different. People wore strange clothes—seeing so many women in pants still shocked her, even though she herself had worn them—and spoke in a loose, peculiar sort of way, a flabby version of the French she knew. And the crowds! Why, this had to be the largest congregation of people she had ever witnessed!

Francis chuckled at her shock and wonder. "It's small compared to Paris, my love," he told her.

Unbidden, her hand sought his as she shied into his side. "Paris must be enormous," she breathed. The air wasn't as clean as she remembered, either, but she knew why. The pollution recently had changed things.

Suddenly she realized that her hand was tucked into Francis'. Blushing, she thought about retracting it, but decided not to. If he was willing to hold her hand, then she would let him.

Her heart ached hollowly. _I love you. God, I love him. Thank You for this time with him, but… Will it even mean anything to him?_

She hoped it did. Even if it was a very little bit, she wanted to mean something to him. As horrid as it sounded, she hoped he would mourn when she died a second time. _I'm terrible, _she thought bitterly. But that was how she felt.

"We're going to see the Palace of Versailles," he told her gently. "It's beautiful, but…a little extravagant."

"I know," she said eagerly. "I saw it from Heaven, but I want to see it in person! Somehow, everything's…_more_ here. I guess in Heaven I was too surrounded by such beautiful things to really appreciate Earth anymore."

Francis winced, and Jeanne blushed. Obviously Heaven wasn't a good subject to dwell on. "It's wonderful," she breathed, swinging their intertwined hands slightly as she gazed around at their surroundings. "Thank you for bringing me."

"You're welcome." His voice was stiff.

o~O~o

France had so many conflicting emotions in his heart that he wasn't sure he was physically capable of containing them all. On one hand, he was happy that Jeanne was holding his hand, and having fun on the trip; but having her fling her joy at living in Heaven in his face like that was anything but pleasant.

Watching her face glow so radiantly like that…he just wanted to clutch her to his chest and kiss her until neither of them could breathe. He was convinced it wouldn't take much. Just being around her made him breathless.

He passed a hand across his eyes as he bought their tickets to enter the Palace. He was so stupid to be thinking like that. Stupid and selfish. Who knew if she even wanted that?

He wouldn't. Not until she asked. She would likely never make a move to kiss him, but she might ask. And if she did… Well, then he would allow himself to be selfish.

Maybe that was what made him want to feel her lips again. The fact that it _was_ selfish. It was as if he wanted to emphasize the difference between them even more by being so utterly human, by having illogical emotions that he couldn't and sometimes didn't want to control. His angel, she belonged in Heaven. Not here with him. He must have been a masochist, to want to make that difference even more painfully obvious than it already was.

Or maybe he wanted to make her a part of the world. He could cover her with his own taint, the one he'd cultivated in his years of sleeping around, and make her a part of this world she didn't belong in. He could paint her with the worst the world had to offer—with himself—until God would not want her back.

_I'm terrible,_ he thought bitterly. But that was how he felt.

He wanted her by his side. Forever. Like a willful, ignorant child, he wanted it—without regard for the consequences and without caring for what it would mean for anyone else.

Which was exactly why he could not have it. He'd been many things in his life, not all of them good—but there were some things he simply could not allow himself to become. That level of selfishness was just despicable, and he would not allow himself to sink that low, especially due to feelings that Jeanne did not even return, at least on the same level.

It took everything he had to play the cheerful tour guide and show Jeanne around the Palace. He drew on his memories of the time to explain the complicated rituals and protocol that governed life at the Palace—much of which he had been directly involved in. He had ranked just under the king himself at the time, and so had been at the center of the pomp and circumstance as much as the royal family.

He brushed the knuckles of the hand he still held across his lips, grinning slightly at the memory. "I've never been so pampered before or since. I wouldn't go back though—it was suffocating." Realizing what he was doing with her hand, he started slightly and dropped their entwined hands back to dangle at their sides.

"I can imagine…" Jeanne gaped, wonderstruck, at all the wealth displayed in the Palace. Her grip tightened on his hand ever so slightly, as if she was overwhelmed by her lavish surroundings. "It's lovely, though."

"Yes, lovely…" Jeanne's hair was more golden than the gilt covering every surface, her eyes bluer and brighter than the sapphires studding some of the display items. Her skin was like the finest porcelain, and her lips blushed red as the roses in the vases along the walls. She was what held his eye as he made the tour. She was easily the most stunning thing in Versailles that day to France's eyes.

They had arrived in Versailles in the late afternoon, so by the time they finished with the tour it was evening, and time for them to go to their hotel. France had already had someone drop their luggage, and when they arrived it was waiting for them.

"I had some things made up for you," he told Jeanne as he led her to her room. "Some dresses and such to wear. There are some pants too, whichever you prefer to wear."

"Thank you." She smiled radiantly at him in gratitude. His heart squeezed painfully over its hurt and hope and longing.

_I won't do it. I won't._ "Goodnight, my love," he said, forcing a smile.

As he turned to go to his room next door, Jeanne's small but strong hand caught his wrist. "Francis?" When he unwillingly turned to look at her, she had a torn expression on her face.

"Yes?" His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

She hesitated, biting her lip. "Never mind." She waved her hand as if to dispel the summons. "It was nothing. Good night."

Francis watched her enter her room, then trudged slowly to his. When he entered, he shut his door and leaned back against it, his hands pinned behind his back as he sank to the floor. "What am I doing…?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes harshly with one hand. He'd never been so tempted to kiss anyone as he was just now with Jeanne. Not even when she had been reincarnated had he been so tempted.

But after his musings today in Versailles, that wanting seemed almost taboo. _Even I am not that selfish. At least there is that._

When he drew his hand away from his eyes, he was surprised to find his fingers wet. He hadn't felt himself start to cry.

o~O~o

_Fool!_ Jeanne stormed into her room and slammed the door, furious tears stinging her eyes as she railed against herself internally. _You were burned at the stake three times over and you can't even bear to ask the man you love to kiss you goodnight? What kind of coward are you?_ Hot droplets slid down her cheeks, chasing each other down. _I'm so weak. I can't remember the last time I was this afraid of anything._

Jeanne had not been afraid of dying for the country she loved. Despite all she had to live for, she had felt no fear. But she was afraid of not being loved by the man she loved, so afraid that she would rather not ask for his kiss than hear him refuse it to her.

_I'm such a fool._ She dropped into the bed still fully dressed and stared at the ceiling. _I only have three more days now and I'm wasting them acting like a silly little child!_

Heaven had dulled the memories of how complicated life could be. It seemed she had forgotten how much courage it took to face the one she loved and be vulnerable before him, offering her heart for him to caress or stab with a single word.

Jeanne d'Arc had been martyred. Executed. Burned like a common witch. She would not lose her courage over this.

* * *

AN: GUYS I HAVE THE PERFECT THEME SONG FOR THIS PAIRING.

IT'S THOUSAND YEARS BY CHRISTINA PERRI.

I MADE A VIDEO FOR IT AND EVERYTHING.

MAYBE I'LL POST IT ON YOUTUBE.

Maybe :3


	5. Surrounded

**AN: WELCOME TO THE LONGEST CHAPTER EVAH**

**I just couldn't find a decent place to break it up so it's long. My indecision has given you some extra fluff today :3**

**Please review!**

* * *

The next morning, the pair was off again. France thought a few days at his beach house would be nice for her, relaxing and easygoing, but populated enough to prepare her for the teeming, jostling, hollering crowds of Paris.

They took to the train once more, and Jeanne spent the whole ride pinned to the window once again. She seemed more fascinated by watching the scenery rush by at speeds a horse could never achieve unless you were riding it to death than she was by watching the scenery itself. That was what he'd kept in mind in planning his excursion—she already knew the sights, so experiencing the culture of this new age was the focus of what he was showing her.

He thought that taking her to the Riviera would be the biggest culture shock of all, though. He was slightly looking forward to seeing her reaction at all the scantily clad and occasionally even naked beachgoers. That would be very entertaining, at least until he had to find her a private place to calm down a little after the ensuing shock.

When they arrived at the train station, he already had a car waiting to take them to his beach house. On the way there, Jeanne gazed avidly out the window once more, enchanted by the sights of the seaside city.

"Here," France said, leaning past her to depress the button to roll down the window. "Smell that?"

Jeanne wrinkled her nose and giggled. "It smells so salty here."

"That's the sea," he told her. Jeanne had grown up a common woman, and had never seen the ocean for herself. "I think you'll enjoy it very much."

"I think so too!" Jeanne laughed, leaning out the window to let the wind whip back her short-cropped hair.

It was so good to see her laughing again. France smiled to himself. Even though he'd been in a lot of pain since Jeanne came back to life, the sweetness of just being near her again was more than enough to compensate.

The beach house was much smaller than France's estate at Versailles, but he enjoyed it more. The house had a feel of lightness to it, an openness, a kinship with the sea, as though it was just another wave that had simply decided to remain on the beach instead of retreating back into the ocean. The walls were all painted white; decorations were sparse, and simple when they were there at all. Nothing like his intricate Versailles estate, a home that reflected the taste of the French Revolution as surely as this house reflected modernism. That was part of the appeal of owning more than one home—one could experiment with many styles and tastes without making the rooms in a single house jar with each other.

It was large for a beach house, with three bedrooms and two full baths, and despite the slightly gangly appearance the stilts upon which it stood gave the house, it was obvious that the owner was wealthy. He knew many of the neighbors speculated that he was descended from the long-disbanded French aristocracy—no one could guess that he had _been_ aristocracy for much of his existence. The money upon which he lived was from no ancestor. He had cultivated his own fortunes. The income the state paid him was not wasted, despite what England and America seemed to think—France was actually a skilled investor, and had several business ventures that were going rather well. When you were immortal, you learned unlimited patience, and the irrelevance of time in entrepreneurship was a rather useful tool. Most nations had learned the trick; France's ventures were simply more subtle than some, and so were overlooked. In fact, his wineries were some of the largest and most profitable in the country, and he had ownership of several highly acclaimed "family-owned" restaurants that pulled in quite a considerable profit. His preference to work behind the scenes had served him well—the more people who disregarded him, thought him a fool, the better. No one ever bothered a harmless idiot like himself. It had taken him many years to cultivate that front.

Making his promiscuity public had helped quite a great deal. Not that it hadn't been going on long before he made it common knowledge—it had simply been a private matter then. But as his appetites grew and he found them increasingly hard to control, he had simply stopped bothering. Not only was it immensely easier that way, but it also helped cement the image of his idiocy in the minds of others.

As France followed Jeanne into the house, however, he felt a pit growing in his stomach. It took him a moment to realize what it was.

This house was his second favorite, which meant that he spent more time here. His Versailles estate was usually all but abandoned, but most of his summer was spent here.

And that meant he'd been with women in this house. Many, in fact. This house gave his Paris flat a run for its money—at the beach, France was better able to admire the women, and sometimes they noticed and welcomed the attention. Some had even come to the beach seeking summer flings and drunken one-night stands. In Paris, seduction was more subtle, so even though he spent more time there, this house had seen almost as many lovers pass through its door.

Jeanne clashed jarringly with this house, with his memories of it. His angel, and his stain, all together under one roof. It was wrong. Abhorrent. She didn't belong here. She was too pure for this house, for what he'd been and what he'd done under this roof.

o~O~o

Jeanne had seen every one of France's lovers. She knew, and she recognized the look of apprehension on his face as he gave her the tour. They remembered together; they saw the ghosts of his nights tangled with his lovers as he led her through the house. The blocky beige couch was full of the spectral women, and a man or two as well—she saw the voluptuous blonde he'd taken pressed against the wall next to the refrigerator—the drunken redhead on the balcony—a slender, dark-haired man with olive skin at the dining room table. The bedrooms were the worst. The one decorated with pale green was the least populated—he hadn't cared for the color he'd decorated it once he'd seen the finished product, but had never gotten around to changing it. That had steered him away whenever he sought somewhere to be intimate with his lovers. The second bedroom, decorated with sailing-themed wallpaper and objects, was worse. His own room teemed with the ghosts of his conquests, of all races, with all hues of skin and hair. Jeanne forced herself to look normal, as though she saw nothing.

o~O~o

France could swear that Jeanne could see them too, all the shades of his lovers. Even the ones he had forgotten sprung back to life before him, each one accusing, each one labeling him guilty.

_You didn't love us._

I never made you any promises!

_You threw us away._

I'm sorry!

_You never wanted us._

I know that now.

_It was her all along._

Yes, it was her. It was always her.

All for her. He hoped Jeanne understood what he'd done. He hadn't himself, not until he'd had to confront these ghosts and Jeanne at the same time. But beholding them both, he'd come to the realization. All of these women and men, all the people he'd chased and won, not even all of them together had brought him the same fulfillment as Jeanne. And he'd never even slept with her. Just being next to her was greater rapture than all his nights with these lovers, who he'd already forgotten by the next morning. He'd spent six centuries mourning Jeanne, and his heart had never ceased to cry. Combined, all his lovers were more forgettable and less meaningful than one single woman.

"That's the tour," he said lightly. "How about we put you in the green room?"

o~O~o

Jeanne unpacked her bags slowly. She wanted to have a look at all the clothes Francis had given her, and this seemed like a good place to do so. Francis had said they would be here for a day, then visit the mountains, and then finish their tour in Paris.

She suspected that Francis was even more discomfited by the fact that she was rooming with his past lovers than she was herself. As for her part, she had decided that she would ignore them. It was the choice he had made, and it could not be undone. She loved him despite all that—if she could ignore the knowledge of their existence enough to love him, then surely she could ignore the force of their presence in his home.

And yet… Somehow, although Jeanne felt she had more of a right to be at his side than any of these people with whom he'd spent his nights, she also felt like she was betraying them by being here. These people were her replacements, meant to fill the gap left by her death—and yet, each and every one had a claim on her Francis that she would never have. This was the place where they had lain in his arms; this was the place where she should have been able to stand at his side with pride; this was the place where she was haunted by what could not be. He wouldn't touch her. She saw it in his eyes, the apprehension, the hesitation. He could not kiss her—how could he take from her what he had shared with all these ghosts? She had made him a youth again, a youth as unfamiliar with the touch of a lover as she herself was. He would not ask, and even if he did, she would not give it. They were not married, and that was something she would not give to a man she was not one with in the eyes of God.

Even though she was firm in that decision, she felt the tiniest twinge of regret. She had promised herself that she would not mourn what she couldn't have because of the time constraints of her reincarnation, but she wished she could have shared that with him. It might not have been special to him—he had, after all, been with so many people—but it would have meant something to her. It would have been a memory she would love to take to Heaven. But she would not do such a thing, for the guilt would haunt her. She would not compromise her honor for her weakness.

_Besides, he won't even kiss you_, she thought mournfully. _He might not even want you._

She couldn't help but notice that none of his lovers had resembled her. Some had been blonde, and some had been boyishly shaped, but none had both of those characteristics together. The blondes were always curvaceous and the slim ones always had dark hair. What if she couldn't even attract him at all?

_No use thinking about that,_ she snapped internally. _Even if you could, it's useless._

Yes. Useless. Jeanne sat down on her bed next to her clothes and stared at the wall for a long time.

o~O~o

France thought it might have made him feel better to, just once, have a lover that looked like Jeanne.

But he never could. Sometimes he tried—he'd woo them and take them home with him, and just as he was about to try something…he stopped. He could never make himself do it. He told himself that he could pretend that they were Jeanne, that it would give him closure, that it would ease his suffering.

The fact was, though, that they were _not_ Jeanne. He didn't want a woman who looked like her, he wanted _her_. He could hardly think of Jeanne that way anyway. There were many ways that he wanted her—alive, breathing, by his side, holding his hand, kissing him—as his wife, even, as the mother of his children—but he could hardly consider wanting her that way. It was an abomination to combine his pure, virginal Jeanne with his own inner darkness, the perversion in his soul. He could not use a false version of her as the balm to heal the wound caused by her death. It was unnatural, terrible, wrong.

If he had time, maybe he could reconcile himself with it. Maybe even enough to take her. But only if he could be assured that she would live. Instead, he had been assured that she would die. He could not try and salvage his wounded heart with a bandage that would dissolve in just five days, even if she would consent to it. Which she would not.

He pushed those dark thoughts out of his mind. He was finished dwelling on what could not be. For now, he would enjoy the days he had with his precious Jeanne before she vanished once more.

o~O~o

Not long after, France led Jeanne down to the beach to go swimming. Out of respect for Jeanne's sense of decency, he had elected to wear board shorts of the type America wore and a T-shirt. For once he wasn't concerned about the state his perfectly even tan would be in after a day under the sun in a T-shirt—her wishes trumped his, always. Which was why he also refrained from pressing a kiss to her hair, no matter how much he wanted to, as he led her down the stairs of his beach house to the sandy shore.

Jeanne's swimsuit was rather odd-looking. It was dark gray and made out of the same material as regular swimsuits, but it had sleeves down to her elbows and fell halfway down her calves. Even though the decency of the suit by today's standards was almost laughable, it had taken almost half an hour of convincing to get Jeanne to wear the thing. Her arms, she was not so concerned about—but her legs had not been so blatantly revealed since she was a child on her mother's apron strings. Even though it was only perhaps eight inches of her leg revealed, she blushed furiously crimson and shrank into France's side, as if terrified to have anyone see.

"Shh," he soothed, swallowing his amusement with considerable difficulty as he stroked her hair comfortingly. "It's alright. This is a private beach, so there won't be as many people around. The only people allowed to be here are myself and my neighbors."

Jeanne's face did not lighten in hue. It remained dark crimson as they padded across the sand towards the water, and her timid, hunched stance did not loosen. "I want to go back," she sniffled, so mortified that her eyes were moist.

At one time, in her first life, a crying woman would have sent France running. Instead, he chuckled and patted her hand on his arm soothingly. "You're perfectly decent, darling. Anything more would have caused you to drown. You don't want to give up the chance to sea bathe because of this, do you? In the water your legs will be hidden under the waves anyway."

"Well…" She hesitated. "If you say so…"

Murmuring encouragingly to her, France led her to where the waves kissed the shore. "Come, you're doing great. Be careful not to get it into your eyes, darling, it stings… It doesn't taste good either."

Jeanne waded carefully into the water, her eyes widening and her tears evaporating quickly as the waves washed over her toes. "It's cold!" she cried, shrinking against him, away from the alien sensation. "Should it be?"

"The ocean is usually cold, dear." He stepped forward and tugged her in a little deeper with a smile. "You'll get accustomed to it."

She lagged behind until their arms were both stretched out in an attempt to hang onto the others' hand. Finally she took an unwilling step forward.

"That's it!" he said in encouragement. "Be brave, my love."

The jab at her courage did the trick, as he'd expected. She could be as much of a stickler for honor and valor as any man he'd ever met. Back straight, she marched into the waves to France's side. "There!" she said smugly. "I did it—Ahh!" With a strangled howl, she threw herself against him, clinging to him as though for dear life. "Something touched me!"

He snickered, earning him a baleful glare from the woman clutching him as a lifeline. "I'm sorry," he said, composing himself. "The ocean has fish in it, of course, and it could have just been some seaweed. It wasn't anything harmful."

"Oh," she said, coloring again. "I am sorry." She didn't unlock her arms from around his neck, however. France was aware of every millimeter between them, and longed to close them to kiss her. For a moment, the temptation swelled so strongly in him that he was fighting with every sane fiber of his being to restrain himself. What was that in her eyes—the same temptation? It couldn't be.

o~O~o

_Ask him!_ Jeanne growled at herself. _Just ask! How hard is it? It is just two words! Kiss me, Francis. Kiss me._

"Francis, could you…"

"Yes?" His face was close to hers, and conflict was clear in his eyes.

"Could you let me cook something tonight?" She was furious at her own cowardice. But it took a completely different kind of courage to face a warrior bent on killing you and facing the man who you loved. Physical pain, she could deal with—pain of the heart had always been harder for her to bear. "I used to enjoy it, you know."

"Oh. Yes, of course, if you'd like that." Was that disappointment in his eyes? "But let's swim first. You might be tired later, and if that's the case I can order something for us."

"Okay." Tentatively, she placed her feet back on the sand and disentangled her arms from around his neck. The ocean tugged at her feet hungrily, sucking her towards the endless blue abyss at the other side. Jeanne clamped onto Francis' arm tighter than a mussel on a rock.

She glared at him, daring him to comment, as she remained attached to his arm as she carefully explored the waves. As time passed, the undertow became less threatening. It wasn't strong enough to pull her under, and it hardly even upset her balance now that she was used to it. Eventually, her grip on Francis' arm loosened, and she timidly waded out alone until her waist was submerged.

Francis chuckled. "My brave warrior."

Shooting him a ferocious glare, she jerked his hand. "Come out here."

"What is it?" He came complacently to her side, where she promptly tackled him and knocked him over into the water.

"That's what you get for teasing me," she said with satisfaction when he came up spluttering. She had much more strength in her slim arms than most people would suppose.

Francis stared at her in shock. It was an amusing sight, with his usually perfect golden locks dripping and eyes that matched the ocean wide with surprise. "Wha—?"

Jeanne giggled, clutching her middle. "And you thought I was too scared to let go of you. If only you could see your face!"

He laughed. "You're usually so serious, Jeanne. What's gotten into you?"

With a mischievous grin, she shrugged. Honestly, she wasn't sure what had made her act so brazenly—she never would have dreamed of it when she had originally been alive. "I do not know. Perhaps it is the times that—" She cut off with a strangled shriek as something seized her ankle and dragged her down into the water.

Panic paralyzed Jeanne's lungs as her face went under the water, and her body locked helplessly as the waves closed over her head. Terror chased reason out of her head, and she forgot the shallowness of the water. When it was all around her like this, depth ceased to hold meaning—there was no air, no matter where she went. She could not swim! What was she to do?

_Ashes scattered in the water, lost. No decent Christian burial for Jeanne d'Arc, the heretic. The woman they could not allow to become a martyr._

A pair of steady, strong arms locked around her and lifted her effortlessly out of the suffocating vise of the waves. Jeanne's fingers locked in a death grip around Francis' sodden white shirt and she shivered as she clung to him.

"Jeanne? Darling?" Francis' voice was worried. "I'm sorry. That was tasteless."

"No," she managed. "I am all right… I was the one who started it…"

"I didn't know that you were so afraid—"

"I am not afraid!" Jeanne snapped. "Don't speak foolishness."

There was a smile in his voice as he said carefully, "Of course not."

Jeanne pounded a fist into his chest hard enough to make him grunt. "Put me down."

Still repressing a smile, he obliged. With care she tried to hide from Francis, she waded into the water until her chest was under the waves, nervous about the undertow and what living things might be lurking under the enigmatic water. Water was always alive, always moving, always flowing, but this water… This bitter, murky water was somehow even more alive than a river or lake's water. It tugged and pulled with the life's breath of the ocean, each wave an exhale and each undertow an inhale. She felt like she was chest-deep in the maw of a vast blue monster ready to swallow her at any moment.

She tried to keep a hand on Francis at all times if she could—to steady herself on the uneven, shifting sands of the seafloor, of course. Every brush sent a thrill through her

_I miss this,_ she thought suddenly. Maybe this was one thing Earth did better than Heaven. In Heaven, there was no hatred, no disliking anyone—on Earth it was possible to experience the most negative emotions towards people, and maybe that was why a feeling of love became all the sweeter.

Of course, Heaven was pure bliss, and superior to Earth in every way, but there, the disparity of affection felt for distinct people wasn't so great. Here, what she felt for Francis was more real and tangible than ever.

They played in the water for several hours, talking to one another, jumping waves, and splashing around; afterwards, they returned to the shore to build some sand castles.

"There's a method to it," Francis explained. "Wet sand holds together best, but if you put dry sand on top of the wet the castle won't crack when it dries."

"Can I give it a try?" she asked eagerly.

With a slight bow and a smile, he handed her the fire truck-red plastic bucket. "Certainly."

Sand castle building was a lot harder than it had seemed from heaven. Nothing wanted to stick together like it should, and sand simply hadn't been created to be a building implement.

Frustrated as her umpteenth effort at creating a tower crumbled, Jeanne crossed her arms and huffed. "This isn't any fun," she grumbled.

Francis chuckled. "It takes more practice and patience than you have, darling."

She glared at him, but her glare melted into a smile. She supposed it was true. Her impatient nature had only been exacerbated by heaven, where everything happened all at once and yet in a specific timeline. Heaven was outside of time, and she wasn't used to dealing with it. "I suppose not."

Francis smiled at her slyly. "How big of you to admit it."

She wrinkled her nose. "Why thank you."

Suddenly Francis' eyes traveled to something over her shoulder and he bit his lower lip—to hide a smile, maybe?

Curious, Jeanne turned to see what he was looking at. She gasped and her eyes widened in horror when they alighted on a couple coming down the beach from their beach house, holding hands and laughing.

But the source of her mortification was the clothing they were wearing—or, more appropriately, the lack thereof. The woman wore an outfit more skimpy than the underwear Jeanne had been wearing for the past two days, a scandalously revealing contraption made of triangles of fabric held together by strings, and the man wore only what Jeanne could have sworn was just underwear.

"Ah!" she cried, averting her eyes quickly, her cheeks blazing like the sunset. Unconsciously, she found herself burying her face in Francis' chest, fisting her hands in his shirt as she hid her eyes.

Surely they thought this beach was deserted, otherwise they wouldn't have come dressed so, right? Oh, but why would they dress like that even if they were alone? That was shameful, disgraceful, to parade your body around like that. Jeanne felt like her virginal purity was slipping away like sand in her fist just at the sight of them.

Her heart thudded. She'd never seen so much skin on anyone, especially not a man! In fact, the only man she'd ever even thought of seeing…

With another startled gasp, Jeanne hurled herself out of Francis' arms. It was just too intimate, to hold him so closely and think about his body when she'd never even seen it…

"I—I'm sorry," she stuttered. "But he… You… It just feels wrong to…"

He chuckled and offered her a hand to help her to her feet. "Let's go back inside, okay?"

She nodded meekly, accepting his hand and rising to her feet. She trembled slightly as he led her into the house.

"Shh," he soothed, but she could tell he was amused internally. Of course, he had seen more bare bodies than she could ever handle—he would not be as upset by such an outfit as she was. He was comfortable with nudity in a way she could never be.

"I will never understand fashion," she finally managed after they were safely sequestered in Francis' kitchen.

He chuckled as he handed her a glass of water. "Calm down, darling," he soothed.

She took a drink of the water to try and calm herself down. How was he remaining so calm? She could remember a day when he would have been as disturbed as she was to see people parading about nearly bare.

_But things are different now_, she reminded herself sternly. _He's not the same as he was back then._

It was only after Francis had led her upstairs to the bathroom adjoining her room and the sailing room and retreated to his own master bathroom that she realized something.

Climbing into the shower with a couple of the ghosts of his lovers, she remembered how habitual his promiscuity had been. Even women who were obviously with other men didn't escape his appreciative eyes.

But just now, despite the beauty and the blatantly revealing swimsuit of the woman on the beach—and the man, she had to admit; it was hard to get used to the fact that Francis found men attractive sometimes too—his eyes hadn't lingered. They'd skated right past the revealed skin to help her in her distress.

Could it be…? She wanted so desperately for him to return her love for the few days that remained to them. But he had always been the forward one—in the time they'd come from, men courted women, not the other way around. The propriety that had been ground into her bones in life pinned _Do you love me?_ and _Will you kiss me?_ to her tongue before they got a chance to leave her mouth. The questions she wanted so desperately to ask, to be reassured of his love, just would not come out.

She wished she could push the women sharing the shower with her out. But they were a part of Francis, as surely as she was.

A niggling doubt still plagued her, though, despite the hope she had that Francis' disregard for a mostly naked woman meant something to her. If she had learned anything in Heaven, it was that people changed. And she still wasn't sure if the man Francis had become would have a place for her at his side.

o~O~o

France felt like there were a million ants crawling under his skin as he took a shower.

More and more, the presence of the memories of his past was making France miserable. The more he fell in love with Jeanne—and each passing second only heightened his feelings for her, even as his despair grew that she might not love him—the less room there was in his heart for these false loves. How many times had the touch of a lover he did not love staved off the nightmares for just one more night? How many times had he halfway pretended it was Jeanne he lay with, when he stopped because her purity could not be found in the depths of his sin?

What she was, and what he had become, did not belong together. Even if she did love him, it would be wrong for her to care so deeply for someone so twisted.

France had never understood unconditional love, though he'd never realized it. When he sat in church and listened to a priest tell of the devotion of the Lord, he had never fully grasped the concept of a love that transcended all pain and suffering and disappointment and betrayal and punishment. It was foreign to him, and he could not know that was the way Jeanne loved him.

o~O~o

Jeanne loved Francis, even if he would not have her. She would always love him. It was inevitable that their hearts should collide, and she had always known it. Francis might not, but she knew that the way she would always love him was as immortal as High Heaven.

o~O~o

France ordered dinner to be brought to them that evening—Jeanne had been too tired to cook after all. He went out of his way to make sure they ate things she never would have gotten the chance to eat as a commoner, the finest French cuisine. Her eyes lit up every time she put a bite in her mouth. It made France happy that she was still enjoying Earth, even after experiencing the delights of the Heaven she would so soon be forced to return to.

Another thing that made her happy was watching the sun set on the ocean. They sat side-by-side in the sand, watching the dying sun paint lines of scarlet fire across the sky, their arms just barely touching. France longed for her to lean on his shoulder, but she didn't. He hadn't expected her to anyway—the inexorable magnetism between them must have been as one-sided as he'd feared. Still, he wondered how long he could hold out before he _had_ to touch her. It wasn't an option; after six hundred years of not having her at his side, how could he resist at least a few small touches in the bare handful of days that they had?

Soon after, they retired to bed. Well, Jeanne did, at least. The long day of swimming had exhausted her, and so she went to bed early. France, on the other hand, had no desire to climb into a bed stuffed full of the lovers that haunted him so much. He'd never before felt guilt over what he'd done, and feeling the full weight of it now was suffocating.

So he spent the night on the couch, watching mindless late-night television to try and take his mind off of his predicament.

o~O~o

England didn't sleep either. He spent the whole night, as he had the night before, ripping through his spellbooks, trying to replicate a feat that had taken him six hundred years the last time—manipulating the dead.

If he could find a way to preserve Joan's life, he could finally rest. If he failed, he would never again be able to look France in the eyes, and he would have no way of ever erasing the stain that made him hate himself so much.

* * *

**AN: The ANGST! /3 Haha I love it :D Please recall that I have promised a happy ending and stick with me, my loves!**


	6. Sacrificing

**AN: Hello my good people! I've been offline forever thanks to school, but I just had to take a minute and update for you.**

**So, this chapter will probably hurt your feels. Sorry about that (but not that sorry, I'm a cruel author xD Any emotion I can elicit is a victory even if it's sadness) Be sure and leave me a review flaming me for being such a jerk to these lovely characters!**

* * *

France woke Jeanne early in the morning so they could catch the train to the mountains. With so little time left to them, France had decided a good way for Jeanne to get the full experience of the nation they loved would be to experience its extremes—a hot sandy beach and cold snowy mountains within a few hours of each other.

A pang of worry shot through France when he noticed the slightly lethargic way that Jeanne was moving. Was she tired? Or was it something more sinister?

Could her body already be failing?

o~O~o

Jeanne moved slowly, carefully, as Francis led her out to the beach so they could watch the sunrise dancing across the waves. Although the sunset had been more brilliant, painting the sky with lines of molten golden fire, it had also been more somber. The gold of a sunset came with the promise that it would soon melt into night, while the pale rose of a sunrise promised a new day of opportunity. Jeanne preferred sunrises to sunsets, beginnings to ends.

But her end was already coming—she could feel it. She could imagine that old age might feel something like this. A stiffness had settled into her bones and a weariness into her muscles that she feared no amount of sleep could cure. Her body had been reincarnated to last only days, and already it was beginning to expire.

She tried not to let Francis see, though. The hesitancy of her slowly deteriorating body, she could bear—but she didn't want Francis to have to worry until the time was here. The state of her body was proof enough that they didn't have time to waste on worry.

The sunrise lifted her spirits, however. The bright colors reminded her of her lifelong philosophy—that every cloud had a silver lining. Although she would leave Francis soon, she would get to return to Heaven and watch over him from there. Her love would not end, even if his had been diluted by the relentless flow of time. The love she had for Francis was a treasure, even if it was not one they shared, a pleasure that walked the razor's edge of pain.

There was always a balance. To have been so in love for so long, there had to be suffering to be endured to prove it. Jeanne clung to the promises she had made to Francis so long ago, because they meant the world to her, and she could see them written across everything in this world. This world was the place where she had met Francis and fallen in love with him and kissed him and saved him from being torn apart by war. This was a beautiful world because it had so much love in it, so much that the sun and the sky and the clouds and the earth and the sea overflowed with it. There was love painted across the sky with every color of the sunrise. And that was why Jeanne did not want to leave this world, even though Heaven was a much more beautiful and happy place. This was the world where she had promises to keep and a love so great that it didn't even matter if it was returned.

Francis' hand reached down to encompass hers. Her heartbeat was of pain and pleasure in equal measure.

"Let's go," he said to her, tugging her slightly in the direction of the house.

She followed. She always would. Death would be no barrier to her from staying at his side in spirit.

_That's all I can give you_, she told him silently. _But it's a promise I can keep, at least._ For all the promises that she could never fulfill in a life cut so bitterly short, it gave her peace to know that there would be one that would allow her heart to reach his from Heaven.

o~O~o

The train ride to the mountains was one of the most scenic and lovely in all of France. It always made France proud of the country he represented when he came this way. It was just awe-inspiring to watch the hills rear higher and higher out of the earth, straining toward the sky until they became towering snow-capped mountains.

Jeanne was as fascinated by this train ride as the others. "It is just so incredible to see it stream by so quickly," she said in awe, gazing out the window at the stunning view.

"Beautiful," he murmured, but he wasn't looking out the window.

The painfully slow movements from that morning were gone now, and Jeanne was back to her normal energetic self. When they arrived at the station, she bounced off the train eagerly. "Where are we staying?" she asked excitedly.

"I rented a cabin up the mountain," France explained. "We'll be there until tomorrow morning, when we'll head to my home in Paris."

"I haven't seen snow in so long," Jeanne breathed, her gaze locked on the soft drifts of white that crowned the mountaintops.

"I'm sure it'll be colder than you remember," he said with a chuckle. "Don't forget your coat."

"Oh, yes." Jeanne slid her arms through the sleeves of the coat France had given her when they boarded the train. "Do we have a car coming for us?"

He nodded. Idly he reached out and adjusted the tucked-under collar of her coat. When he realized what he was doing he froze.

Jeanne reached to the back of her neck to fix the collar too when she saw him reaching toward it, and their hands met. A shocking jolt of heat shot through France from the intimate touch of her skin and silken hair all at once.

Their hands jerked back at the same moment, and they wore identical sheepish expressions. France's heart squeezed painfully.

"The car's here," he said quietly, stepping off the curb to open the door for her.

Jeanne slid into her seat without a word. She looked subdued, and sat with her hands gathered in her lap like a scolded child.

To France it seemed like a thousand miles yawned between them. Those hands, closed in her lap, were not his to take. Her posture made it clear that she didn't want their hands to accidentally meet again.

o~O~o

_Breathe_, Jeanne ordered herself. The longer this went on, the more every touch made her feel the fluttering heat of first love. Not knowing her place in Francis' heart had brought back all the uncertain tingling and heart-swooping that she had experienced when she first fell in love with him. It took all she had to keep her hands folded in her lap and not reaching out to take his.

The ride up the mountain was exhilarating. The narrow road made Jeanne feel as though they were about to plunge off into space at any moment. She held her breath with fearful anticipation each time they rounded a corner, but they never fell, and every vista visible from the windows was an incredible sight to see. They could even see rain and snow falling on neighboring mountains, the sky and the mountain smudging together as the clouds unloaded their burdens on the peaks. The ride was completely breathtaking, not to mention fascinating, and the reactions of her human body to the temperature and altitude changes they experienced were as interesting as the phenomena themselves.

"We're here," Francis said as the car began to slow. "Come, I'll help you out." He offered her his hand to steady her feet on the icy ground. "It's cold, love."

Despite his warning, the sudden bite of the wind shocked Jeanne. The only parts of her that remained warm in the cutting chill that gusted strait through her coat were the hand that Francis held and her heart at the sound of him calling her love.

The driver got out of the car and unloaded their luggage just in front of the door. Francis murmured his thanks and tipped him, and the car sped off back down the mountain.

Meanwhile, Jeanne admired the adorable little cottage. It looked like the perfect lovers' retreat—cozied in between the thick trees, made of age-darkened wood with a tidy little roof and glowing invitingly with cheery lights. It looked warm and cheerful, a refuge from the cold outside while never neglecting the mountain setting.

"How cute," she said with a smile. "Let's go look inside!"

Jeanne took a step forward, and her feet hit a patch of slippery ice. Immediately her legs went out from under her and she fell.

"Jeanne!" Just a second before impact, she felt a strong pair of arms lift her away from the unforgiving ground. "Are you alright?"

She nodded, wide-eyed from the surprising fall and rescue, and steadied her legs under her. However, she kept her face buried in Francis' coat. For as long as she could linger here, she would. Here in his arms was where she had always felt safest and happiest. Here—where his heartbeat pounded in her ears, and his oh-so-familiar scent filled her with memories of lingering in his arms, snatching rare moments of bliss while the Hundred Years' War raged around them—this was home.

Jeanne's eyes filled with bitter tears, and for the first time since England delivered the news that she would soon die, she allowed herself self-pity. She didn't want to die. She wanted to be here, in Francis' arms, for more than just a handful of days. She wanted him to love her while she was here, or at least pretend that the last six centuries hadn't changed him enough to make everything she'd been to him obsolete.

Francis froze when he felt her shoulders shake against him and realized she was crying. "Jeanne…? Are you…"

"Just…don't go anywhere," she said, clutching his jacket to prevent his escape. "Just for a minute, let's stay here, okay?"

His arms went around her in comfort. "Whatever you wish, Jeanne."

_I wish I could stay here,_ she told him silently as the tears began to rock her body in silent shudders. _I wish we could go back to the way we were. But that…that's just impossible._

Still, as long as she was in Francis' arms now, she could remember. She could have the feeling of his strength and kindness and the chastity restored by her return and take it back to Heaven with her. How long had it been since Francis just held a woman like this? How long since he cared enough not to run when a woman became a nuisance to handle?

Or maybe he just felt like he must do this. Her heart squeezed painfully in a vice of helpless pain. This hurt was not something she could run from, nor would she—this agony was the razor's edge between the most exquisite anguish and the most perfect pleasure, and the taste of rapture in his embrace was more than enough to counterbalance her suffering.

Whether it was genuine caring or merely obligation, Jeanne was willing to stay here for as long as he would allow.

o~O~o

Success, at last. It had taken a full forty-eight hours of torturous, frantic wakefulness to arrive at this point, but it was all worth it now.

o~O~o

France's phone buzzed in his pocket. He wiped his hands on a dish towel and pulled the black rectangle out of his pocket.

"Hello?"

"France, it's me."

"England? What do you want?" His expression soured. "Do you have any more bad news for me?"

"Exactly the opposite." England sounded exhausted but smug. "I found a way to keep Joan alive."

France felt like an electric current had just shocked through every nerve in his body, paralyzing him. "What?" he asked faintly. It took two tries to make the word come out of his suddenly tight and hoarse throat.

"I can keep her from dying," England repeated. "Now just tell me where you are so I can catch a plane there and perform the spell. Don't worry, I double and triple checked it this time. It's foolproof! See, what the spell does is ties her life force to yours—as long as you're alive, she will be too. But in payment you have to give up some of your immortality."

France was about to say something different, but he was taken off guard by that last statement. "_Some_ of my immortality? What does that mean?"

"You see, nations don't ever fully die unless their legacy is forgotten," England explained. "You've been rather influential in your day, so it would be likely that you would live forever—but if I perform this spell on you, you won't get to live that long. The day France ceases to exist as a country, you and Joan will both die, even if your legacy lives on."

A million thoughts and emotions seethed inside France like bubbles inside a pot of boiling water.

The heat was that of a purging fire. Since Jeanne had returned, France had recovered some of what he had been long ago—and once, he had been noble. Once, he had known sacrifice. The cracks in his heart yawned wider as the purifying flames devoured what he had become in the last centuries, leaving only a jewel of his most righteous self behind. He knew what he had to do, and it was not what he wanted to do. Everything in him was crying out for him to take England's offer, but…

"I can't." His heart was almost obliterated by now from all the abuse it had suffered in the past four days. How could it still hurt so much? He struggled valiantly to keep the tears from coming. But they were an army, and he was but one brokenhearted man. His vision blurred, and he felt drops of moisture hit the hand clenched on the table. "I can't do that to her, England."

"What?" England sounded shocked. "France, what are you saying?"

"I want her to live," France said miserably. "But… Oh, God!" He wrestled with his emotions for a moment, trying to marshal his wavering resolve. "I can't be that selfish. She doesn't…love me like she used to. It's better this way."

"Don't be daft!" England cried. "She's so in love with you it's almost sickening, you dumb frog!"

France shook his head. "Even if she is, she deserves better than me." His hand grew white-knuckled on the phone. "I harassed you often enough. You should know. She's a saint, England! And I'm anything but. She deserves heaven, and I don't deserve her."

"France, listen to me! Love isn't about deserving somebody," England cried. "She doesn't care what you've been. She loves you for who you are when you're with her! She loves you for what you are together! If you can be this self-sacrificing for her, than that's a heck of a lot of a better man than I've seen in years, France."

France was silent.

"At least ask her," England pled.

"No. I don't want her to feel obligated to do anything she wouldn't want to do."

"How do you know she wouldn't want to, you pompous jerk?"

France couldn't take this anymore. This was something he had to do, but it wasn't something he had to suffer for more than necessary. He would pay the price in anguish every day for the rest of his immortal existence. Time did not heal all wounds, only dulled the pain. "Goodbye, England."

"France! Don't hang up, you fobbish—"

France had never felt emptier than he did at that moment. He was an ocean, a barren ocean where no life could grow. There was only wave after wave of salty tears.

An eternity's worth.

o~O~o

England stared at the phone in his hand. _Did that really just happen? After all I did… After all they suffered… It can't end now! Not like this!_

But he had no idea where France was, and no way to contact Joan, the only person who might be able to convince France that she wanted to stay alive with him. What was England going to do?

When Jeanne left her room, having finally cried herself out and cleaned herself up, she found Francis in the kitchen. He was standing listlessly at the counter, staring at the half-prepared food in front of him with a bleak expression.

"Francis?" She touched his arm lightly. "Are you okay?"

He turned to look at her slowly, and Jeanne flinched at what he saw. His eyes were the deepest winter, bleaker than losing odds and more freezing than midnight on the ice. Those eyes were dead and lost, and something precious and beautiful that used to reside in them had flown away. They were the most terrible, frightening eyes Jeanne had ever seen. Even in the heat of battle, when she cut down the invaders to her country, she had never seen eyes more miserable and dull. They were the eyes of the living dead, and just looking into them froze Jeanne's heart.

o~O~o

What she could not know was that the precious thing in France's eyes that had died was hope. The last flicker of hope in his soul had been extinguished by his very own hand, and now only the deathly cold fingers of the heart of winter remained.

It reminded France of the legend of Pandora's Box. When Pandora had unleashed all the miseries of the world from the forbidden box, the only thing that had remained to man was Hope.

Because Hope never fled willingly. No, it was too stubborn for that. Hope had to be strangled out, stamped out, crushed like a bug, obliterated until no trace remained. And its death was most effective and complete when a soul destroyed its own hope—for then, even the coals were scattered, and the ashes thrown to the wind, and the fires winked out beyond hope of rekindling.

This was the ice in France's soul. This was the winter that would never lift, the earth untouched by the sun, the darkness unpierced by the weakest golden ray of the feeblest light. France was the deepest darkness, the most biting cold. The misery so complete that he could no longer even feel his own heart beat past its crushing weight.

France had died in his soul when the last feeble flicker of hope was extinguished.

o~O~o

"Francis?" Jeanne gripped his wrist. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said mechanically. "I was just thinking."

Jeanne wanted to break down into tears again at the lie. How could he even think she would believe that? She knew those eyes better than any others. She knew that precious thing that had died, and she wanted to bewail its loss.

But now she was sure of it—his heart had finally iced over completely, lost to her forever.

"Can we go outside later?" she asked softly. "I wanted to play in the snow."

He nodded. "Whatever you like."

He'd said something so similar to her just a few minutes ago, but this one sounded different. Like a machine, not a man—an empty shell that made her heart break all over again.

o~O~o

Whatever she wanted. Now the words held more meaning than ever before. Her wishes ever before his, forever and always. Even if it meant the massacre of all he held dear, even the sacrifice of his own happiness, he would see her safe and happy, down to the smallest wish. Until the end, that was how it would be.

o~O~o

Fat wisps of snow drifted all around Jeanne, and for a moment she could pretend to be alone. This sad and frightening stranger that had replaced her beloved Francis was worse company than none at all.

He was so stoic and serious all of a sudden, nothing like the teasing man from the beach yesterday. Jeanne hated it.

"Francis," she said, throwing her arms around him and gazing up into his face. She half-expected him to feel as frozen as the snow. But his heat was still there, and it felt as warm and familiar as ever. "Something's wrong. Please tell me."

The ring of Francis' phone answered. He tugged it out of his pocket, looked at the caller, and promptly rejected the call.

"Who is it that keeps calling so much?" she asked. His phone had gone off at least three times since they came outside an hour ago. All three times France hadn't answered.

"Nobody important," he told her. Suddenly he reached out to touch her hair. The familiar but near-forgotten touch soothed her anxious heart. "I'm sorry I've been so out of sorts. I'll be better, I promise."

Jeanne didn't believe him, but she was willing to give him a chance to prove her wrong. "Then let's have a snow fight!"

o~O~o

At first, France hadn't felt normal. But as he played with Jeanne in the snow, he slowly began to feel again.

The shock of the cold snow on his skin. The impact when a snowball hit him. The striated gray sky stretched out forever above him. They were as real as the ripping pain in his chest. They could not be less real just because he was hurting.

There was more to living than love and pain. Those two extremes were not all that life had to offer, and if he chose to live as though they were then he was cheating himself. He was immortal, and yet he had not learned the secret to life—but he had time. Time would dull his pain to the point where he could ignore it. He would move on. Jeanne was his world, but she was not everything.

Last time, in his quest to find something else to fill the void, he had chosen the wrong path, and become something he was ashamed of. This time he would get it right. That was her great gift to him this time. In her last life, she had made him a nation instead of a scattered handful of confederacies. She had sparked the first flare of nationalism and made him a true nation.

This time, she would make him a person worth being. This time, he would live with his chin held high, as someone she could be proud of.

That night when Jeanne was asleep, France tiptoed into her room to brush a kiss across her forehead.

"You always save me, my love," he whispered to her. "Even if I must let you go, you save me."

o~O~o

England growled and hurled the phone across the room as France's voicemail came on for the umpteenth time. What did that frog think he was accomplishing? He wouldn't even ask Joan for her opinion on the matter! That idiot!

The blond wizard pulled his knees up to his chest and held them there, as if to keep himself from flying apart. Human life was so fleeting, so precious. And he'd found a way to make it as permanent as a nation's. France was throwing away the chance of an immortal lifetime—to have the woman he loved by his side for eternity. If only he would ask Joan, he would see that she wanted to stay as well!

It had been a long time since England had felt so helpless. But right now, he was completely powerless to prevent the tragedy unfolding before his very eyes.

* * *

**AN: I KNOW RIGHT? SOMEBODY KICK THIS FROGGY MASOCHIST RIGHT IN HIS PERFECT FACE!**

**AND THEN REVIEW. GO!**


	7. Fading

**AN: I will apologize in advance: despite my delay in updating, this chapter is short.**

**Now I have an excellent explanation for this delay and shortness, and that would be that I am actually writing a book of my own! :D It's almost complete and I am very proud of it! I'll be sure to let you guys know if anything comes of that :) Thanks for still reading my humble fics in my absence, it means so much to find a notification that someone favorited a story I haven't updated in like 3 months ^^'**

**But fear not! Summer is coming up, and I will have plenty of time then to update and write my own book all at the same time :D I hope y'all keep enjoying and reviewing!**

* * *

That morning, France rose early. The car arrived promptly at four in the morning, and France helped the driver load their luggage without waking Jeanne.

Finally he crept into her room. He paused just a moment to admire and cherish the sight—this was the last morning of Jeanne's second life, after all. When she fell asleep the next time, she would not wake. "Jeanne," he said, shaking her shoulder slightly. "It's time for us to leave for Paris. You can sleep in the car if you'd like, but we need to get going."

She opened her eyes. "We're leaving?" she asked tiredly, her voice like a child's.

France wished he didn't love her more with every passing second. It was just another wound to be healed when she was gone. "Let me carry you," he offered. "Your shoes are already in the car."

She obediently slid her arms around Francis' neck when he leaned down to pick her up. Her weight felt so brittle, like an old woman's—but at the same time, France had never felt so alive as when she rested in his arms. She sighed sleepily and curled closer, resting her cheek against his shoulder. Her touch sent tingles racing through him. "Thank you," she said. "For these past few days, and for everything."

"Shh," he said. A hint of fear filled him at her tone. "We still have today left, don't forget."

"Mhm." She was already drifting off again.

The driver held the door for France while he slid into the seat with the sleeping Jeanne. Once inside, unsure of what else to do—and secretly because he wanted to—he sat in the farthest seat and, resting her head in his lap, allowed her to stretch out on the other two seats.

Others might have thought it to be a waste of time, sleeping while their precious few hours together slipped through their hands like sand, but to France it was priceless. While she was asleep, he could slide his hands through her silken gold hair like he used to, and could trace the outlines of her face, memorizing them for when she was gone once more. It wasn't a waste; it was a gift. While she was unconscious and could not feel, he was at liberty to be her lover once more.

o~O~o

Jeanne wasn't asleep—she had only pretended to be so she could rest in Francis' arms like she used to. Being so close to him could be innocent in sleep. But it turned out to be an even better decision than she thought it would be when she felt Francis' hands touch her hair, her face, fingers as gentle and soft as ever.

It was pure bliss, to once again feel his hands touch her. It wasn't hard to pretend that his touch was in love, either. The sensation was a treasured memory for Heaven, and she savored every moment of his touch.

o~O~o

England was sure that France had silenced his phone by now. The calls were no longer being rejected—the phone just rang and rang, with never a voice appearing on the other end…

o~O~o

When they arrived at France's apartment building in Paris, France reluctantly woke Jeanne. "We're here, lo—Jeanne," he said.

She woke surprisingly quickly for how deeply she had slept along the way. "Oh, we're here?" she asked as she brushed the sleep from her eyes.

"Come, let's take our things to my flat and then we'll take a tour of Paris," he said, lifting her gently to a sitting position. "Would you like that?"

She grew eager at that. "Oh, yes!" Her eyes shone. "I want to see the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame! Can we, please?"

"Of course. This is about you, Jeanne. Whatever you want to see, we'll see."

"Thank you!" Her eyes glowed with happiness. "I'm so excited."

It made France's heart lighten to see her so excited to be in his city. "I'm glad."

Together they went into the building. France carried their bags into the elevator, which was in itself a thrill for Jeanne—she'd never ridden on one before—and pressed the button for the top floor.

"The whole top floor is mine," he told her, though she likely already knew. "It's my favorite home, too. The view is just magnificent, especially at night."

Jeanne was pressed to the glass wall of the elevator, which allowed the riders to look out over Paris as they ascended. Her eyes bugged with awe. "It's so amazing," she breathed. "The city… It's huge! I mean, in Heaven I knew how big it had gotten, but I never imagined I would be here to see it for myself!"

"Sometimes it shocks me too," France mused. "I look back on what it used to be and am just incredulous to see how it has grown." The elevator chimed cheerfully to alert them they had arrived on their floor. "Well, here we are," he said, leading the way into the apartment.

France's flat was by far his most luxurious—his Versailles estate cost more, to be sure, but he had possessed the property for centuries, and it was more like a museum than a home. This flat was somewhere a millionaire might live. It was posh and chic and suave and situated in the heart of Paris, where the City of Lights was at its most lovely vantage.

The most attractive quality about France's favorite home was the panoramic view—windows on all sides, so every room had a floor-to-ceiling view of the bustling city below. Each window had remote-controlled shades that could be lowered to ensure privacy, but France rarely used them except in his bedroom or when he was with a lover here. He loved being able to see out over the city at all times.

Even so, the interior was nothing to be scoffed at either. Everything inside was done in sleek black—polished black wood for the furniture and cabinets, black granite countertops, accentuated with gold and deep violet. The cushions of the modern, blocky couch and matching chairs were purple, and golden accents decorated the throw pillows and various decorative items in the rooms. Everything was sharply square and modern-looking, from the couches to the table to the beds in the next rooms. The living room was set into a depression in the rich cherrywood floor, with two steps down into it, and all the other rooms were raised above it due to this. There were two bedrooms and two baths, all done in the same rich gold and violet and black. It could be classy for business, or sexy for his nocturnal diversions. All in all, it was a very awe-inspiring sight.

Jeanne stepped down into the living room, gaping at the house. "It's lovely," she breathed, placing a hand on the couch as she gaze through the kitchen and dining area out at the spectacular view of the Eiffel Tower.

"Thank you," France said. "It's my favorite home, so I put a lot into it."

"I can see that." Jeanne turned a slow circle. "This is a good place," she said softly.

France's heart squeezed. He knew what she meant. It would be a good place to die. "Why don't we get changed?" he said, clearing his throat to banish the lump in it. "Then we can go get a look at all the sights, okay?"

"Okay." He led her to the room that would be hers and placed her bag on the bed.

"Wear something comfortable to walk in," he warned.

"I will," she said, smiling at him. "See you in a moment."

France retreated to his own room and sat staring at the wall for a long moment. How long? How long until her body failed? How long until it was all over?

He opened his phone. He'd missed twenty-eight calls from England since last night. It was a good thing he had decided to silence it—the siren call of the ring was too tempting. He wanted to pick it up, tell England he was here, to come and save Jeanne quickly before her time ran out.

France buried his face in his hands. "I love you," he said. No one would hear, of course.

o~O~o

Jeanne felt so weak already, so far gone. In just one night, simple slowness and stiffness had become much more. Now her body was slow to react to even the simplest of commands, and her muscles were weakened. It took less for her to exert herself, and even her breath seemed to come with unnerving difficulty.

So this was what age felt like. Death. She had died once, of course, but she had never had to deal with the deliberate advance of the inevitable. The only death she had ever experienced was the searing, the sudden. She had never been forced to deal with the slow, inexorable wear that time took upon a body.

If only she could live. She did the last button on her dress and sighed.

"Francis…" She slid a hand down her skirt, the one he'd given her. He'd been so good to her these past few days. Maybe she could take advantage of him just a little more now, in her final hours.

She wanted at least one kiss before she died.

* * *

**AN: Yeah, you tell him, Jeanne! You're a strong independent martyr and you can tell that boy to kiss you before you die!**


	8. Sightseeing

**AN: Hello my good people! Good news-it's summer! Other good news-I finished that book I was telling you about! :D Now all I have to do is edit it and...y'know, write the two sequels! This writing business just builds on itself, I swear it does.**

**Oh and I apologize in advance for any potential misinformation about France ._. I'm about as American as they get and I have never been to Europe :'(**

**As always, I appreciate reviews very very much :3 Thanks for reading!**

* * *

The first place Jeanne wanted to go to was the Louvre museum. Francis got a taxi for them, and they rode there chatting about the various works of art on display.

She wouldn't tell Francis the real reason she wanted to see the Louvre first—because it would require the most walking, and she wasn't sure how much longer her strength would last. She was going to do her best to stay on her feet for as long as she could, but if she couldn't, she didn't want to miss the Louvre because of it.

They traversed the halls of the world-renowned museum, gazing at the lovely paintings on display. Not all of the artists were French, but every piece was a masterwork and made Jeanne stare. She was no more than an indifferent artist, and in life had been able to see few masterpieces like these. Nowadays, such works were considered to be communal property, to be admired and shared by all, but in her time, such things had been the trappings of the rich. A poor woman like Jeanne had little access to such lovely things. It made her very happy to be able to see the works of masters up close and personal.

They stopped for lunch at a typical Parisian café, and for the hour they pent reclining at the table Jeanne could pretend that they were any other couple touring Paris, on any other date. But then she moved, and felt the stiffness in her bones and the ache already coming to her feet, and she remembered.

Next came the Arc de Triomphe. The historic monument was inscribed with names of battles that had taken place since the Napoleonic Wars and soldiers who had died in battle for their country—martyrs like Jeanne who had put their lives on the line for the country they loved and been called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice. She skimmed her fingers over the names, wishing she could sit here all day and read every single one. But that was impossible. Her time was so short, and despite the kinship she felt with all these brave men and women, she had to move on. From Heaven, she would read them. There she would have all the time in the world.

Francis was the perfect tour guide. He had lived in Paris for a long time, and had been present for the building of the Arc de Triomphe and had met some of the famous artists whose works were on display in the Louvre. He offered fascinating bits of history to accompany what they were seeing, and Jeanne listened avidly, even when his rambling moved to esoteric things she did not understand very well or to things that bored her. She was content to just listen to his voice and memorize it for the trip back to the afterlife.

Soon, Jeanne knew, her weakness would be too much to hide from him and they would have to return. But there were two things she wanted to see first.

The first was the great cathedral of Notre Dame. The building itself was a work of art, with spires stretching to the heavens and snarling gargoyles and a magical stained glass window that tossed colored light to the floor of the chapel, illuminating the interior with a soft, otherworldly glow.

Jeanne and Francis slid into an unoccupied pew and bowed their heads in reverence to pray. The entire building shouted the glory and grandeur of God, and one could not help but be hushed and humble when inside such a beautiful building.

_God,_ Jeanne prayed fervently. _I know You already made an exception by sending me back to Earth to be with Francis, but… Oh, God, I'm sorry that I'm so ungrateful. This time with him has been wonderful, but… I can't help but want more! Please, if there's any way I can stay with him. Even if he doesn't want me anymore, I want to stand by him, no matter what. I can make him love me again, can't I? Anything is possible, right? Please,_ she pled. A tear slipped down her cheek. _I want to be with him forever. I love You, and I love Heaven, but I love him too, and I hate to see him suffer so. And I don't want to be without him, ever. Please, if it is in Your will, give me the chance to live again, with him this time. I'm begging, Father. Please._

She crossed herself gravely and murmured, "Amen."

It was in the hands of God now. But even if she died, she would not doubt that God had done what must be done for the greater good. She had never doubted, and God had never failed her. Even now she could feel Him close, and she was grateful for His nearness and strength when she was so worried and weak.

He would always be there, if she lived or died, and He would always be the good and faithful God that she loved.

o~O~o

France didn't have Jeanne's rock-solid faith, but he still could not find the bitterness in his heart to blame God. It was the spell that had specified the five days. It had been a mistake, and no one was to blame yet again. Not England, not France, not Jeanne, and not God.

But still, a little prayer never hurt. _I'm so confused, God, _France admitted. _I think I'm doing the right thing, but still I… It hurts. I want her to live. So much. I love her, I really do. You know what I've been, and what I've done, but when she's here with me, I have no desire to go back again. All I want is her. But she deserves to be with You in Heaven! I just don't know what to do… And she says that You always work things out for the best, so I suppose I'll leave this one to You…_

"Amen." It was in the hands of God now.

o~O~o

Their final stop was the Eiffel Tower.

They rode to the top in silence, both absorbed in their own thoughts. For France's part, he was considering his prayer from the cathedral. He'd been honest there. He wanted Jeanne to be happy, no matter what—and that was why he had not allowed England to come, because he thought that would be the way to best ensure her happiness. But what if he was wrong? Maybe he should tell her, and let her decide. Was there even still time for England to get here?

No matter. He wouldn't say anything. If he was wrong, in Heaven she would know why he had done it, and perhaps she would forgive him. And he would remain in his ignorance and pain until time allowed his wounds to close, if not heal.

That was not a very pretty alternative, but he would rather choose this one than allow her to choose a life with him out of pity or obligation.

The elevator to the top slowed to a stop, and France caught hold of Jeanne's hand out of reflex to stay together in the crowd that streamed out of the elevator.

She tugged at him, looking more vibrant than she had all day. She'd tried valiantly to hide it, but he could tell she was slowing down. He hadn't said anything, though—when she was at her limit, she would say so, and it wasn't his place to call her last day short because of over-concern. "Come, hurry! I want to get a spot by the railing!"

They rushed to the side, where they could see the Parisian skyline haloed in the fires of a sun that was just barely beginning to set. Jeanne gazed out, awestruck, at the incredible sight. France was lost in a view far more beautiful—her face, so innocent and open and wonderstruck at the sight of the city he held so dear.

Suddenly Jeanne squeaked and shrunk from the rail. "It's so high," she said in a small voice. In her time, the tallest buildings had been palaces, and even they could not overtop the Eiffel Tower. This was probably the highest and sheerest drop she had ever stood on the precipice of.

He laughed and reached out to grasp the rails with his hands, surrounding her with his strong arms. "I've got you." His assuring voice calmed her slightly, and she turned back to the view.

She leaned back against him slightly to feel the comfort of a steady form, but it made France's stomach swoop giddily even more than the height of the tower did. "Thank you," she said softly. "This has been the best few days of my life. Either of them."

He smiled at her. "I'm so glad."

Their hair blew in a soft breeze. A few golden strands of her hair tickled his face.

"Francis," she said softly, gravely, the smile melting from her lips into an expression of solemnity. "I don't have much time left. Just a few hours, maybe."

"Do you want to see anything else?" he asked. He did his best to ignore the painful squeeze of his heart at her declaration.

"No," she said. "Let's just go home."

"Okay." He leaned back and led her back to the elevator.

The drive home was quiet. Neither of them knew what to say, even as the last few hours of her life tightened a noose around her neck.

* * *

**AN: IT WILL HAVE A HAPPY ENDING I PROMISE. DON'T HATE ME. *shield against tomatoes/other fruit about to be thrown at me***

**Oh and I will be posting a new fic in like five minutes! Stay tuned! :D**


	9. Immortal

**AN: BELIEVE IN THE HAPPY ENDING. Just saying.**

**Happy reading! Oh, and see if you get the joke about the Olympics in there :D**

* * *

Jeanne felt so weak and tired, like an old woman, as she wandered about Francis' flat that evening. Francis was out, picking up dinner from a takeout restaurant, but Jeanne had elected to stay behind because she was too tired to walk. Of course, Francis didn't know that. She'd told him she would take a shower while he was gone, and she had, but he still wasn't home after she got out.

So now she was just roving around his home, the place where his heart lay. There was heartbreakingly few personal items to be found. No pictures, no cards from friends dangling from magnets on his refrigerator, not even a stack of mail or business cards by his phone.

The only thing that made his house look lived in were the keys and phone in the dish next to the table by the door, which he had left since Jeanne would be home to open the door for him.

_I wonder if he has any photos on his phone?_ she thought to herself. It was heartbreaking to see how little Francis had really lived in the past centuries. She picked the phone up and unlocked it. She just had to know if there was anything here, anything he could live for after she died.

To her surprise, she found forty-one missed calls from England since this morning. What could he want so badly? And why was France ignoring him? There was no way that so many calls had been missed accidentally.

She closed out of the alert and tapped the photos icon. It was empty.

A deep hollow punched through her gut. _Francis…_

Suddenly the screen lit up, and a photo of England appeared on the screen. He was calling! Jeanne knew that she shouldn't, but curiosity about what England could possibly want to talk to France about so much overwhelmed her common sense.

She answered the call and held the phone to her ear. "Hel—"

"Bloody heck!" Jeanne winced at the profanity. "Finally! Will you just let me talk to Joan, you self-centered prig?"

"Um, this is she," Jeanne said timidly.

"Joan?" England sounded shocked. "Where are you? Where's France?"

"We're at his flat in Paris—" She didn't even get a chance to finish the sentence before England began yelling at someone at the other end.

"Find me a flight to Paris right now! I don't care if it's the Queen's private helicopter with James Bond still in it, I need to get there as soon as humanly possible!"

"England? What's going on?" She pushed her damp hair behind her ear. "Is something wrong?"

"Just France," he grumbled. "He wouldn't let me talk to you at all!"

"Why not?" she asked. "What would you want to talk to me for?"

"Because I found a way to keep you alive," England said. "He wouldn't let me ask your permission to do it."

Jeanne suddenly felt very cold inside. Francis… He _wanted_ her to die? She'd thought that he didn't care about her anymore, but this… He just wanted her out of his way. She was a burden to him. It felt like her heart was once again being charred in the flames that had burned her alive, but the rest of her body was untouched. Somehow this was even more painful.

"Oh, that sounded rotten," England said quickly. "What I meant was—"

Jeanne hung up the phone. She didn't want to hear any more. It was over now. She was ready to die and stop being an unwanted nuisance to Francis.

Ready, but it still hurt. She sat down on the couch and began to cry.

o~O~o

When France returned with dinner, he could tell that Jeanne had been crying. Her lovely blue eyes were swollen and red, and her nose was tipped with pink, though it was obvious that she had attempted to hide it. He hurriedly set the bag of takeout containers on the coffee table and knelt by her side.

"Are you in pain, darling?" he asked, touching her cheek. "If there's anything I can do—"

"No," she said with misery she was making a Herculean effort to hide. "There's nothing. I'm fine." She managed a weak smile. "Let's just eat dinner, okay? I don't have much time left—an hour, maybe two at the most."

His heart thudded against his ribcage like an animal howling to escape the confines of its cage. "Well, we'd better eat well then," he said feebly through the ocean of anguish he drowned in as he helped her to her feet.

He'd meant to retract his hand once she was standing, but it was obvious that she wouldn't make it to the table without his assistance. Half her weight came down on his arm as they made their way painstakingly to the table.

Jeanne looked unbelievably frustrated. "Being old is terrible," she grumbled.

"You look just as lovely as ever," he told her, unable to help himself. If she was going to die, he wanted it to be in the knowledge that he still cared. Even if it seemed pathetic, she should know.

She turned her eyes from him, but not before he saw them well with anguished tears. "Jeanne?"

"I'm fine!" She sat down quickly. "It's nothing."

Uncertainly, he followed suit and laid out the food for them. He had to make Jeanne's plate—the heavy glass was too much for her weak arms to manage now.

He could see the frustration of her helplessness in her eyes. "I'm sorry you have to do all this," she said.

"I'm not," he told her truthfully. "I don't mind it."

She smiled at him, but it was the still the same terrifying wan and drawn expression. France could see death in her eyes, and knew that her time was near.

They ate, but Jeanne had little appetite, and neither did France. He was too worried and anxious to taste the food he swallowed, and it sat uneasily in his roiling stomach. Jeanne just seemed not to be hungry.

o~O~o

England tapped his foot impatiently. He wished air travel were faster—he didn't have any time to waste! He had to save that pair of idiot self-sacrificing lovers from themselves before it was too late.

o~O~o

After dinner, Jeanne tried to stand, but she couldn't.

France caught her before she crumpled, luckily. Tears came to her eyes at her helplessness, and France wanted to cry too. It was almost time for her to leave him once more.

"I'll take you to your bed," he said as he gently lifted her bridal-style, but she shook her head weakly.

"I want to stay with you," she whispered. She nuzzled closer to him with what little strength she had. "Until I die. I want to be with you."

A pit of worry gathered in France's heart. What was she saying?

Could it be that he have chosen wrong?

He carried her to the couch and set her down. "How much longer?" he asked softly, hollowly.

"Maybe an hour," she responded. Her voice was as weak as the rest of her.

"Jeanne…" He touched her hair. It was like silk—so familiar. So sweet, so fleeting. "Do you regret it? Coming back here? I know you must be suffering…"

"No, I don't regret it," she responded. "We needed the closure. Both of us."

Try as he might to keep them inside, France felt tears begin to gather on his eyelashes. "I suppose you're right."

"Francis…" Her voice was so soft, so weak. "Let's sing a song. A hymn, anything. I used to love to listen to you sing."

She had, hadn't she? He'd forgotten. That's why he didn't sing much anymore—after she'd died, it brought back too many sad memories of her asking him to sing to her. How had he forgotten something so important? What other precious memories of this, of loving her so much that this world had rejected the enormity of what they had, had been lost to time? He'd thought that all his memories of her were too close to his heart to ever leave him. What if he forgot again? A knife of pain twisted into his heart. Somehow the thought of forgetting hurt even more than her impending death.

"What should I sing?" he asked past the lump in his throat.

She thought about it, maybe for a little too long. Her silence frightened him, but at long last she did speak again. "I've always wanted to hear you sing _Amazing Grace_," she said softly. "I know it's in English, but it's still lovely."

A tear fell finally. "Do you know what the words mean?"

She nodded. "I hear it all the time in Heaven. There, the streets ring with the songs of praise that the living are singing, and the angel choirs are always singing too… But your voice is never there, no matter how hard I listen…" She trailed off, and her eyes grew unfocused.

"I'll sing it every day then," he promised thickly. "You just listen. I'll be singing, I promise."

She smiled. "I'd like that…"

He sang softly the song she had asked him to sing. It was about God, but the words fit her so perfectly too. She had always been his saving grace, the only thing in his centuries-long life that was worth living for. He didn't ever want to leave this world, because this world was where he had loved Jeanne. Where she had loved him. Where, for however briefly, his life had been the purest light. Despite all its flaws and all the suffering held in it, this world was not worthless. This world held a promise of hope and love that he could never be blind to, not when he had looked into the eyes of Jeanne d'Arc and been so in love with what he saw there.

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me… I once was lost, but now I'm found, once blind, but now I see…" He could hardly manage the words past the lump in his throat, and what did come out was wobbly and broken by the tears that had yet to fall.

Jeanne smiled softly. "Still so beautiful…"

"Jeanne," he sobbed, unable to contain his tears anymore. His hand found hers and clenched it tightly. "Don't die. Just stay with me a little longer."

Her fingers wrapped around his slowly, clumsily. "I'll try," she said. "But I can't…can't stay long…"

He kissed her hand. His tears fell on her skin. "Jeanne…"

"Francis… Can you do me one more favor?" she asked, her voice faint.

"Anything," he swore. He clenched his eyes shut and held her hand to his face, just to feel her touch. "Anything you want, my love."

"Kiss me." Her hand tightened in his with what little strength her brittle hands could muster. "Just once before I die, please kiss me."

Francis was sobbing now, in a display of emotion that had been so rare from him for so long. Nothing made him feel like Jeanne, so nothing could hurt him like Jeanne. Why now, of all times? Why a kiss of farewell? But he couldn't dream of saying no. She had asked. She wanted him. If even for this one moment, she wanted him. "Of course," he said. "I've wanted to kiss you so much. I've wanted to for centuries, my love."

A tear fell from her eye too, but she was too weak to cry. "Thank you."

Gently he gathered her into his arms and lowered his lips to hers, ever so reverently. He'd been dreaming about this moment for centuries, and now it was so bittersweet, tainted by the death in her eyes.

But there was still such sweetness in her lips, just like he remembered. Better. This, the touch he had craved for so long, was sweeter than the nectar of the gods. She was weak and could hardly respond, but he could tell she was as desperate for him as he was for her.

"I love you," he whispered to her. This golden moment demanded the words, the truest words he had ever spoken. She needed to hear them before she died. This pact between the two of them, sealed with a kiss, would be immortal, even if she was not.

He felt another tear slide down her face. "It's okay," she said. "You don't have to lie to me."

"Lie?" He pulled back, incredulous. "Jeanne, I do love you. I never stopped!"

Her face was confused. "But… You wouldn't kiss me, and you hesitated to touch me… I thought that I couldn't offer you what you wanted, so you didn't…"

He stared at her in dismay and shock. "That was because I thought you'd gotten over me in Heaven, seeing what a wretched mess I'd become…"

"No," she said, reaching up to touch his face. "Never. I loved you even as I watched you in the arms of other women. I don't blame you for that—I was dead."

"But it was wrong," he said. "I shouldn't have—"

"I know," she interrupted. "You shouldn't have, but it didn't matter to me. Love is kind of silly like that," she added with a sardonic smile.

"Oh, God," France moaned as the magnitude of what he'd done crashed down on him. The weight of it was crushing. This time, it was not England who had killed Jeanne, but France himself. He had killed her as surely as if he burned her at the stake. "England… He found a way to keep you alive, but I thought you preferred Heaven, so I told him…"

"_That's_ why…" Jeanne's eyes focused over Francis' shoulder, past reality into whatever end was coming for her. "We're a mess, aren't we?" she said with a humorless smirk.

"You knew?" he asked, devastated. How it must have hurt her!

"Yes, but not why you turned him down. I just thought you didn't want me." She sighed. "Well, it's too late now… It's almost my time."

"No!" In feverish desperation, France released her and ran for his phone. "I can call him, get him to come… I've got to do _something_!"

"It's too late," she said sadly. She had the placid, almost blissfully serene face of a martyr—one who knew death was coming, and embraced it as a death worth dying. "There's no way he could get here in time. I'm dying, Francis." She beckoned to him. "All I want…is for you to be here and hold me while I die."

"Jeanne…" He was crying so hard that he could hardly see or speak, but he couldn't deny her final request. He took her into his arms softly, as he had so many times before. "I'm so sorry…"

"It isn't…your fault…" She managed a soft smile for him. "We're fools, aren't we?"

"I love you," he said desperately. "Don't die! Do you hear me?" His lips caught hers fervently, demanding a response from her clumsy ones. He tried to be gentle, but his body had spent so long in patterns it could not help but replicate now. Before he realized what he'd done, he found himself hovering over her as she rested on the couch below him. "I'm so sorry," he said, springing up. Self-loathing washed through him in a bitter flood. She was about to die and all he could do was _that_? France had never felt so sickened with what he had become. "I just…"

Her soft laugh cut him off. "Don't be sorry… It was nice…to know you care… All your lovers… None looked like me…"

He held her hand to his face and pressed his lips to her palm again and again, hungry for the touch of her living flesh that would not live for much longer. "Of course I care. I just couldn't sleep with a woman who looked like you but wasn't you."

"Thank you…for that…" The light in her eyes dimmed.

"Jeanne," he begged. "Please." His heart felt like it was being wrung out. That barren ocean of tears poured out of him. "Don't die! I love you! Doesn't that mean anything?"

"Not…to death…" She gazed at him with a soft smile on her lips. "I will be watching… And I will miss you…"

"No," he sobbed. "Please, don't!"

"I love you."

"Don't say that like it's goodbye!" he howled in anguish. "Jeanne!"

Her lips moved, but no sound would come. He gathered her into his arms and rocked her still body back and forth, begging her to stay with him when he knew that her final seconds were ticking away. "Jeanne, no! No! Don't go! You can't! Don't leave me here without you again!" He kissed her hard, but there was no response. Her body felt so unnaturally cold and still and light, as if the spirit had physical weight that had now flown away. Ice spread through him, paralyzing him. And then sound burst out of him, the scream of a soul in the most crushing, most unbearable agony. "No! _Jeanne_!"

Suddenly the door crashed open. "Thank goodness you forgot to lock it," snapped England irritably. "Do you know what I went through to get here?"

"England?" France cried, dumbfounded. "What are you doing here?"

"Saving her life, if it isn't gone already!" England growled. "You're just lucky I had the foresight to write this out beforehand!"

With that, the short blond Englishman snapped out a sheet he had been carrying under his arm to reveal a pentagram drawn on it. "Hurry! Both of you, get on it!"

Francis hurriedly sprang up, Jeanne still in his arms, and stepped onto the pentagram. "England, you were right," he said. "Thank you."

"Of course I was right! Now shut up!" The wizard folded his hands together and began chanting under his breath in a language that sounded like gibberish to France but he recognized as words of power far beyond his understanding.

The pentagram began to glow, and France felt his hair and clothes begin to blow in an unearthly wind with no discernible source. His feet grew hot as the magical array beneath them grew warmer.

Francis stared desperately into Jeanne's face. _Wake up_, he begged. _Please, wake up. Don't be too far gone. Just wake up._

Nothing happened. Jeanne's eyes remained closed, her face painted with the pallid pall of death. England had come too late. She was gone.

Bone-crushing sorrow collapsed onto France's soul. "Jeanne…" He buried his face in her neck. His tears flowed over her skin and his sobs shook her body. She was really dead. She had loved him after all, and she was dead. And he had nailed her coffin shut with his own two hands.

There were no words for pain like this, pain that filled up every corner of your soul until there was hardly enough room for the person you had been, until you were nearly obliterated under its sheer crushing magnitude. And yet you lived on; unmercifully, you lived to experience the pain that was slowly killing you from the inside out.

The pain was everything now. Tomorrow, he might remember happier days, other things to live for; but for now, for tonight, the pain was all he had.

In his anguish, in the shaking of his sobs and the gasp of his lungs for breath in the suffocating agony, a heart beat weakly.

Slowly, France lifted his head. He felt as though he had aged a thousand years in the last few hours, but still there was a heartbeat. A heartbeat that wasn't his own, but so close. So very, very close.

"Jeanne?" Hardly daring to hope, France put his fingers to her lips.

Breath stirred across his skin.

And then, so slowly, her cheeks grew rosy again, and her weight grew less brittle, and her gorgeous blue eyes once again opened. And France's heart began to beat once more, and his lungs found air to breathe, and the winter in his soul suddenly burst into spring.

"Jeanne! You're okay!" France clutched her tight to his chest and rained kisses across her face and neck and shoulders, blessing the heat of her skin and the pulse beneath his lips. "Oh, God! You're alive!"

"I'm alive?" Jeanne looked down at her body. "I'm—I'm alive! How—" She was cut off by France's lips catching hers, and this time she could really respond to them. Now her kiss was as it had been, not weakened by her failing body and despairing soul. Now, all their joy and wonder poured through the contact and multiplied, echoing back between the two of them until it was almost too much for them to contain.

Finally France pulled back and just clutched her tight to his chest, pressing her so tightly to himself that it almost hurt but wasn't close enough. He needed to feel her there, that she was alive in truth, that this wasn't all a dream.

But it wasn't. She was here and alive and she loved him. She loved him! The world was suddenly a much more beautiful place now that this incredible, lovely, inspiring, brave, wonderful, perfect woman was a part of it once more.

France glanced over her shoulder at England. "Thank you so much, England. I owe you for this, more than I could ever repay. You name it, anything. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"Don't worry about it," England said with a smile. "Consider it a debt repaid for, er."

"Killing me in the first place?" Jeanne slid out of France's grip and went to England smiling widely. "Trust me, neither of us cares anymore." She grasped England's shoulders and tugged him down to kiss him briefly but firmly.

England turned red. "Oh. W-well, thank you."

"Thank _you_, England." Just to irritate Jeanne—he hadn't particularly enjoyed watching her kiss England, and he knew that she had just done it to make him jealous—he pressed a kiss to each of England's cheeks.

Jeanne made a face. "My turn," she said, drawing him back to her.

France complied willingly. "Let's make a deal—you don't kiss any other men, and I won't either."

"Or women," she added.

"Or women." He tugged her close to his side. "Cross my heart. No one but you, ever."

She beamed and his world brightened. Nobody glowed like Jeanne did, his beautiful golden martyr, the woman who had died for him yet was now free to stand beside him again. "I promise as well."

England cleared his throat. "Well, am I going now? Or are you going to offer to let me stay here since I went through all the trouble to fly out here last minute?"

"You'll have to take the couch, but if you're okay with that, you're perfectly welcome to stay," France said. "We can't have the lady sleeping on the couch, and I'm not giving up my bed for you."

"I suppose that's alright," England said, disgruntled.

"You're welcome." France pressed Jeanne to his side and beamed down at her. It was almost hard to believe the pressure of her at his side, but if this wasn't reality, he had no desire to ever return to it. "So, darling, what do you say we get married tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" she cried. "So soon? I won't have a dress or anything…"

"Oh, okay, then, I suppose I can wait if you want a traditional wedding," France said regretfully. "But let's get married as soon as we can, okay? We can get started on the arrangements tomorrow."

"Marriage?" blustered England. "I've never heard of a nation marrying a human before!"

"Well then, I'll be the first, won't I?" France said pointedly. He tightened his grip on Jeanne's waist to tuck her closer to him. "I've been waiting for six hundred years to be with this woman, without ever falling out of love with her for even a second. I'm _going_ to marry her, and what other nations do be burned. In any other case, it would be ridiculous, but she's going to live as long as I do, so in this case it actually makes sense."

"W-well," England stuttered. "I suppose so…"

"You'll be my best man, won't you?" France grinned at England. He probably looked ridiculously happy, but when hadn't he been ridiculous in the eyes of the world? This brand of ridiculous was a much, much happier one, and one he much preferred. "After all, I owe all this to you."

For the first time that evening, England smiled a true smile. It was a soft and indulgent one, but it had true contentment in it. "Of course, my old friend. It would be an honor."

o~O~o

Jeanne flexed her fingers, her toes, spread her arms and stretched her legs. Ever since England had rescued her from the edge of death, her body felt more real, more alive than before. This body was built to last, like his and Francis'. England had explained the spell to her before retiring for the night—that it would allow her to live as long as Francis did at the expense of part of Francis' immortality. At first she had felt slightly guilty about that. But Francis hadn't wasted any time in assuring her that he didn't want eternity without her.

A slight knock came at her door. "Come in," she called.

Francis entered the room, already grinning at the sight of her. "Hello, love," he said, holding out his arms for her.

She went into them and sighed contentedly. "This feels like a dream… I hope I never wake up."

He tilted her chin up and kissed her deeply. "Me either."

After a moment she broke away and leaned against his chest. "I love you," she murmured.

"I love you too." He kissed her hair. "I'm sorry, but after keeping my hands to myself for so long, I just can't seem to leave you alone…"

"It's okay," she responded. "After thinking that I was going to die, I need you to be here and remind me that I'm alive."

"I always will be," he promised. "We belong together, and now we won't be separated ever again."

She clutched him tightly, and a few tears slid from her eyes. "Thank you."

Truly now, the deepest love of her heart had the chance to blossom. Now their flower would not be one that bloomed but twice—it would be a flower immortal, and death would not touch them for many, many years. They might not have forever on this Earth, but they would share even their deaths, and in Heaven they would love each other.

That was their fate—to live forever in love, hand in hand, no matter what came their way. It had been stolen from them many years ago, but their chance had been restored through grace, and they would never take that for granted, ever.

* * *

**AN: Well, that's the end! There will probably be a short epilogue later, but thank you all so much for reading! I love you guys!**


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